2? 


r£  ;.  V.i,  1 6 


THE 


OR,  THE 


A  STORY  OF 


k0  of  l\)t 


AND 


THE  VICISSITUDES  OF  THE  SEA. 


BY  WALDO  HOWARD,  ESQ. 


BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED  BY  F.  GLEASON, 
AT  THE  FLAG  OF  OUR  UNION  OFFICE, 

MUSEUM  BUILDING,   TREMONT  STREET. 

1  Q  '  o , 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850, 

BY  F.  GLEASON, 
In  the  desk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


STACK  ANNEX 


?5 


PREFACE, 


For  us,  and  for  our  tragedy, 

Here  stooping  to  your  clemency, 

We  beg  your  hearing  patiently.  HAMLET. 

The  author  of  the  following  story  sits  down  to  amuse  both  himself  and  his  readers 
by  weaving  together  such  scenes  and  pictures  as  will  form  a  truthful  panorama  of 
the  events  of  a  stirring  and  romantic  period.  Life  will  be  depicted  as  his  fancy 
hath  reflected  it,  and  the  scene  drawn  and  colored  after  nature  herself.  It  will  be 
his  effort  to  engage  the  reader's  curiosity  and  interest,  and  also  to  charm  and  de 
light  him  by  those  exhibitions  of  true  feelings  which  his  own  heart  has  not  unfre- 
quently  realized  in  itself. 

The  two  extremes  of  life  created  by  poverty  and  riches  will  be  depicted,  and  the 
extremes  of  virtue  and  vileness  passed  in  review  before  the  mind's  eye.  Loveliness 
and  hideousness  will  be  contrasted,  that  the  former  may  be  more  rightly  appreciated 
and  the  latter  more  abhorred.  The  promptings  of  pride  and  jealousy,  and  the 
teeming  wiles  of  the  heart  will  be  recorded,  and  our  story  so  set  down  as  to  inter 
est  without  outraging  sensibility  or  borrowing  from  the  impossible. 

Thus  much  it  seems  proper  for  the  author  to  say,  by  way  of  hands-shaking,  and 
now  with  your  kind  consideration,  to  the  story  itself.  THE  AUTHOR. 


170388: 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


CHAPTER   I. 


THE  TAP  ROOM  OF  ST.  GILES. 

Now  let  it  work  :  mischief,  thou  art  afoot, 
Take  then  what  course  thou  wilt. 


SHAKSPEARE. 


THE  street  lamps  were  burning  dimly  in 
St.  Giles,  London,  and  the  thick  haze  of  night 
brooded  over  the  eastern  portion  of  the  great 
metropolis  with  more  than  its  wonted  density. 
The  vast,  overgrown  city  was  slumbering,  or 
rather  the  more  respectable  portion  of  it  were 
wrapped  in  the  still  mantle  of  sleep,  while  the 
noise  and  riotous  dissipation  that  seemed  indi 
genous  to  this  section  of  the  town,  came 
bursting  forth  in  rude  boisterousness  and  un 
defined  sounds  from  the  broken  windows  of  the 
tottering  tenements,  and  now  from  some  damp 
cellar's  mouth,  half  under  ground.  The  night 
police  frequently  passed  in  their  rounds  either 
end  of  the  dark  narrow  streets,  but  they  seem 
ed  to  give  no  heed  to  the  turmoil  and  rioting, 
so  long  as  it  was  confined  within  doors,  and 
did  not  burst  forth  into  the  open  light  in  the 
streets.  They  had  become  calloused  to  these 
bachannalian  scenes  and  vulgar  habits,  by  in 
timacy  with  the  people  who  inhabit  these  sec 
tions  of  the  town,  and  did  not  care  to  interfere 
with  them  unless  their  duty  and  instructions 
compelled  them  to  do  so. 

It  is  here  that  we  must  introduce  the  reader 
in  the  opening  of  our  story. 

The  clock  had  already  struck  ten,  one  sum 
mer's  night,  when  a  couple  of  figures  turned 
the  corner  from  a  large  thoroughfare  on 


George's-in-the-field,  and  quietly  made  their 
way  down  one  of  the  narrow  and  dirty  lanes 
referred  to.  They  moved  like  persons  who 
were  fully  aware  of  the  vile  character  of  the 
neighborhood,  and  who  were  on  their  guard  to 
prevent  being  surprised,  while  the  stealthiness 
with  which  they  evidently  picked  their  way 
through  the  riotous  district,  seemed  to  indicate 
some  delicate  and  peculiar  object  in  view. 
There  was  quite  a  difference  in  the  size  of  the 
two  persons.  The  larger  was  dressed  in  a 
coarse  top  coat  and  cloth  cap,  with  rough  top 
boots,  his  figure  presenting  tokens  of  remarka 
ble  physical  strength,  from  the  great  breadth 
of  shoulders  and  chest,  and  other  signs  that 
might  have  been  seen  even  in  that  dim  uncer 
tain  light.  As  he  moved  on,  his  gait  discover 
ed  that  he  was  lame,  which  rendered  his  walk 
somewhat  awkward,  though  his  step  was  quick 
and  unyielding,  notwithstanding  this  blemish. 
His  companion  must  have  been  some  years 
his  junior,  for  his  figure  and  bearing  evinced 
the  uncompleted  frame  of  youth,  though  his 
form  was  stout  and  well  filled,  and  he  walked 
like  one  who  had  the  resolution  and  the 
strength  to  hold  his  ground  in  any  emergency. 
As  they  passed  now  and  then  beneath  the 
street  lamps  that  were  lit  along  the  road  at  in 
tervals,  his  face  appeared  muchcUr'cer  than  the 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


other's,  having  a  deep  olive  cast,  such  as  im 
bues  the  skin  in  the  tropics  and  the  Indies. 
Like  his  elder  companion  he  was  dressed  in  a 
coarse  overcoat,  cap  and  top  boots.  Neither 
of  them  seemed  to  carry  any  weapons,  though 
they  were  in  such  a  dangerous  section,  yet 
they  might  have  had  arms  concealed  beneath 
their  ample  coats. 

They  paused  now  for  a  moment,  before  one 
of  the  noisy  houses  that  lined  the  street,  and 
listened  in  silence  to  the  sounds  of  revelry 
within. 

"  This  is  the  house,  I  have  marked  it  well,'* 
said  the  elder  of  the  two. 

"  It  is  a  dram  shop,"  said  the  other,  peering 
,    jffaj  a  crack. 

"  Yes,  and  of  the  vilest  kind ;  a  sort  of 
rendezvous  for  burglars  and  thieves,"  said  the 
eldest,  taking  his  stand  where  he  could  gain  a 
vie*"  of  the  interior. 

"Half  of  them  are  drunk,"  continued  the 
younger,  still  looking  in  at  a  crack  of  the 
crazy  old  building  occupied  for  a  tap  room,  so 
many  of  which  abound  in  this  locality. 

"  Do  you  see  the  woman  who  keeps  the 
shop,  just  behind  that  bar?" 

"  Yes,  fat  as  a  porpoise,"  replied  the  other. 
"  Do  you  know  her  name  ?" 

"  They  call  her  Mother  Giles,"  replied  the 
elder  of  the  two. 

"  Is  this  where  you  are  going  in  ?"  asked 
the  younger. 

"  Yes,"  said  his  companion.  "  We  will  en 
ter  quietly  as  possible  and  call  for  something 
to  drink,  and  after  that  I  will  take  the  first 
opportunity  to  draw  the  old  woman  into  con 
versation.  If  I  can  accomplish  my  object  by 
gentle  means  and  without  force,  why  all  the 
better,  but  if  we  'must,  why  we  must,  at  all 
hazards,"  he  continued,  with  a  meaning  look 
at  the  other. 

"Hark!  what  is  that?" 

"  Only  a  d nuking  song." 

"  With  a  chorus  of  broken  china  I  should 
think.  There  it  goes  again." 

"  Are  you  ready  ?" 

"  Yes,  lead  on,"  said  his  companion,  as  they 
approached  the  low  entrance. 

"  Have  your  eyes  about  you  and  yoxir  arms 
ready,  for  these  are  desperate  people." 

"  I'm  prepared." 

With  these  words  of  caution  the  two  en 
tered  the  tap  room 


The  drinking' room  referred  to  within  the 
dilapidated  building,  was  on  the  first  floor,  and 
was  one  of  those  filthy  gin  shops  that  abound 
in  the  metropolis.  There  were  six  or  eight 
cut-throat  looking  objects  seated  here  and  there 
in  the  room,  and  three  of  them  were  smoking 
together  at  a  rough  old  table  opposite  the  door 
whence  the  two  persons  referred  to  had  enter 
ed.  These  three  were  evidently  concocting 
some  villanous  rascality,  as  they  talked  in  a 
hurried  undertone,  and  often  with  much  vehe- 
mency.  The  others  seemed  to  be  of  less  im 
portance,  and  evinced  the  several  stages  of 
drunkenness,  from  the  high  excitement  of  the 
stimulus,  to  the  silliness  of  real  inebriation, 
singing,  laughing  and  dozing  by  turns,  quite 
forgetful  of  the  miseries  that  each  seemed 
heir  to. 

Across  one  end  of  the  apartment  was  erect 
ed  a  rough  counter,  greasy  with  filth ;  behind 
which  were  displayed  a  few  bottles,  decanters 
and  tumblers,  the  latter  articles  reversed,  with 
here  and  there  a  lemon  upon  them,  and  from 
this  place  the  liquid  poison  was  dealt  out,  a 
dram  at  a  time.  Sitting  behind  this  rude  bar, 
was  a  woman  half  hidden  in  the  cloud  of  bad 
tobacco  smoke  that  she  was  most  assiduously 
puffing  from  a  pipe.  She  was  a  person  of 
some  fifty  odd  years  of  age,  large  and  bloated 
with  stimulus,  while  her  face  showed  many 
a  rough  and  ugly  scar.  One  might  easily 
read  the  reckless  character  that  actuated  her, 
in  a  single  glance  of  her  small  gray  eyes. 
Though  she  sat  there,  to  all  outward  appear 
ance  in  perfect  quiet,  and  intent  solely  upon 
the  occupation  of  smoking,  and  watching  the 
ascending  wreaths,  yet  a  keen  observer  would 
have  noticed  that  her  small  twinkling  eyes 
were  all  around  the  room,  watching  for  a 
chance  to  further  her  interests  by  selling  a 
dram,  or  else  to  set  some  villany  afloat  upon 
her  customers. 

It  was  into  such  a  scene  as  this  that  the  two 
persons  whom  we  have  described  now  entered, 
and  as  they  did  so,  there  was  no  little  stir 
evinced  by  the  inmates  of  the  room.  The 
drunken  ones  paused  in  their  revelry  to  ogle 
them,  the  three  conspirators  looked  at  them 
with  an  eye  to  business,  and  the  old  woman, 
knocking  the  ashes  out  of  her  pipe  and 
looking  about  her  small  quarters,  called 
through  a  side  door  for  some  one  to  come  and 
wipe  down  a  table  for  the  gentlemen. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


*«  Whew  !  what  an  odious  smell  of  onions," 
said  the  younger  of  the  two. 

"  Keep  your  olfactories  as  well  as  your  lips 
closed  for  the  present,"  whispered  the  other. 

"  Sit  down,  gentlemen,  sit  down,"  said  the 
woman,  blandly. 

"  Here  at  this  table  nearest  the  door,"  whis 
pered  the  elder  of  the  two. 

The  woman's  summons  brought  into  the 
room  a  young  girl  of  some  thirteen  or  four 
teen  years  of  age,  hut  of  most  singular  and 
striking  beauty.  Perhaps  it  was  the  contrast 
that  the  child  afforded  to  the  surrounding 
company  and  the  place  itself,  that  startled 
the  younger  of  the  two  new  comers,  who 
gazed  upon  the  girl  with  undisguised  admira 
tion.  She  was  very  coarsely  dressed,  but 
her  sweet  face  would  have  shown  its  wealth 
of  beauty  through  the  most  squalid  covering 
of  rags,  while  her  form,  though  yet  so  young 
and  unmatured,  was  delicate  and  lovely  in  the 
extreme.  Her  half  plaintive,  half  dejected 
expression,  though  it  was  evidence  but  too 
plain  of  her  unhappy  lot,  yet  added  interest 
to  the  childlike  beauty  and  innocence  of  her 
face. 

"  A  pure  transparent,  pale,  and  radiant  face, 
Like  to  a  lighted  alabaster  vase." 

.  The  elder  of  the  new  comers,  though  he  re 
garded  the  girl  with  no  tokens  of  surprise, 
yet  evinced  no  less  interest  and  attention  than 
his  younger  companion,  and  spoke  to  her 
most  kindly  as  she  wiped  4he  rough  table  be 
fore  them,  and  in  a  gentle  voice  solicited  their 
orders. 

"  That  is  the  child  of  whom  I  spoke,"  said 
the  elder  of  the  two  to  the  other,  after  he  had 
given  his  order  for  a  bottle  of  the  best  wine 
the  hpu|e  afforded. 

"  You  only  said  she  was  interesting,  but 
this  child  is  absolutely  beautiful,"  said  his 
companion,  fixing  his  eyes  once  more  upon  the 
girl,  as  she  entered  with  the  wine. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  who  would  not  • " 

"What  is  your  name,  my  good  girj?"  asked 
the  elder  of  the  two. 

"  Edith,  sir,"  she  answered,  seemingly  sur 
prised  at  the  tones  of  kindness. 

"  Come  hither." 

The  child  drew  near  to  the  table  with  a 
submissive  air.  i 


"  Have  you  been  long  in  this  place  ?"  co»- 
inued  her  interrogator. 

"0,  yes,"  said  the  child,  with  a  sad  and  list 
less  air. 

"  How  would  you  like  to  live  with  me  in 
a  nice  house  and  be  sent  to  school  ?" 

The  child  gazed  for  a  moment  at  both  the 
new  comers,  as  if  she  were  saying  in  her  own 
mind,  does  he  ask  such  a  strange  question  as 
that  in  earnest?  He  who  had  asked  her 
marked  the  expression  of  her  face  and  studied 
it  well.  In  a  moment  more  she  asked  : 
"To  school?" 

"  Yes,  and  be  taught  to  read  and  write  like 
a  lady,  Edith." 

"  O,  I  should  like  above  all  things  to  go 
to  school,"  exclaimed  the  artless  girl,  as  a  beam 
of  joy  lighted  up  her  pale  face  for  a  moment. 
"  Perhaps  we  can  get  her  permission  to  let 
you  go,"  said  the  eldest  of  the  two,  nodding 
towards  the  woman  at  the  bar,  "  and  then  I 
will  take  you  from  here." 

The  child  shook  her  head  incredulously, 
and  faintly  smiled, 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  go  with  me  ?"  ask 
ed  the  gentleman. 

"  I  would  like  to  go  away  from  here  any 
where,"  she  said,  sighing. 

"Never  fear — you  shall  do  so,  my  good 
girl,"  said  her  interrogator. 

"  Ah !  but  she  will  not  consent,  I  know," 
replied  the  child,  looking  towards  the  womai>. 
"  Do  you  think  she  would  refuse  if  I  offered 
her  a  handsome  sum  in  gold  ?" 

"  Hush !"  said  the  child,  timidly,  "  if  you 
have  any  gold  do  not  mention  it  here  !" 

''  Don't  worry  for  me,  my  good  girl.  I  will 
try  presently  and  see  what  bargain  I  can  make 
with  the  woman.  Don't  go  far  away,  but  be 
where  you  can  follow  us  if  I  bid  you." 

The  child  looked  thankful,  but  shook  her 
head,  as  much  as  to  say  that  any  effort  to  ac 
complish  the  object  referred  to  would  be  useless, 
and  at  the  same  moment  they  were  interrupted 
by  a  shrill  call  from  the  woman,  who  upbraided 
the  girl  in  no  moderate  terms  for  her  laziness 
as  she  termed  it,  and  with  a  rude  volley  cf 
oaths  sent  her  into  the  back  room  again,  to 
engage  in  some  menial  service. 

After  sipping  his  wine,  or  rather  pretending 
to  do  so  for  a  few  moments,  the  eldest  of  the 
two  gentlemen — for  their  bearing  seemed  to 
entitle  them  to  this  appellation,  though  the 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME, 


coarseness  of  their  dress  was  no  evidence  of 
their  belonging  to  the  better  class — stepping 
up  to  the  bar,  commenced  a  familiar  and  ap 
parently  pleasant  talk  with  the  woman  of  the 
house,  evidently  relating  to  the  young  girl  al 
ready  referred  to.  The  woman  seemed  much 
interested,  but  did  not  appear  to  concede  the 
point,  which  the  customer  urged  with  much 
earnestness, 

In  the  mean  time  the  party  at  the  opposite 
table  were  eyeing  first  the  person  who  was 
talking  at  the  bar,  and  then  his  companion 
who  was  still  seated  before,,  the  wine.  Neither 
of  them  were  persons  whom  even  a  desperado 
would  wish  to  attack  unprepared,  yet  they 
seemed  to  be  deciding  in  their  minds  whether 
the  present  was  the  best  moment  for  such  a 
purpose,  or  whether  they  should  wait  still 
longer.  Their  manner  and  conduct  showed 
them  to  be  burglars,  highwaymen,  or  both,  and 
they  were  soon  whispering  together  in  a  way 
that  showed  conclusively  that  they  had  alrea 
dy  formed  some  plan  or  design  upon  the  new 
comers.  He  who  stood  at  the  bar  did  not  turn 
his  back  towards  them  even  for  a  moment, 
but  while  he  addressed  the  woman,  though  he 
seemed  desirous  that  he  should  not  be  over 
heard,  yet  was  careful  at  the  same  time  to 
face  the  suspicious  looking  party. 

"  I  am  not  deaf,  you  need  not  speak  so 
loud,"  said  the  gentleman,  a  little  ruffled. 

"  But  I  tell  you  I  will  not  let  the  girl  go," 
repeated  the  woman,  in  reply  to  some  remark 
of  her  customer.  "  I  have  good  reason  for  it, 
and.  she  will  bring  me  twice  the  sum  you  offer, 
within  a  couple  of  years  from  now,  and  be 
sides  I  get  her  labor  into  the  bargain  until 
then." 

"  Very  well,  double  the  amount,  then,"  said 
the  gentleman — "call  it  a  hundred,  pounds, 
and  I'll  pay  you  that  and  take  her  away 
to-night." 

"  It  wont  do,  it  wont  do,  a  hundred  pounds 
is  not  enough,"  said  the  woman,  at  the  same 
time  stealing  an  intelligent  glance  and  nodding 
to  the  three  opposite. 

The  mention  of  the  hundred  pounds  was 
not  lost  upon  the  burglars,  and  the  woman  as 
we  have  seen  took  occasion  to  repeat  the  sum 
after  him,  so  they  might  understand  that 
doubtless  the  man  had  that  amount  of  money 
about  his  person  at  that  very  time.  The 
trith  wa?,  she  would  without  doubt  have  part 


ed  with  the  girl  at  the  price  named  and  ereis 
for  a  much  smaller  sum,  had  she  not  expected 
to  get  the  money  or  a  part  of  it  from  the  man, 
without  giving  any  equivalent  at  all,  before  he 
left  the  house.  She  was  of  course  in  league 
with  the  villains  opposite,  and  was  confident 
in  her  own  mind  of  sharing  in  the  expected 
spoils.  Thus  influenced,  the  old  woman  still 
demurred,  and  indeed  seemed  disinclined  to 
part  with  the  girl  at  all,  or  at  any  price. 

In  the  mean  time  Edith  was  passing  in  and 
out  of  the  room  constantly  waiting  upon  the 
new  comers,  for  three  others  had  now  joined 
the  party  of  burglars,  and  were  listening  to 
some  hurried  and  whispered  remarks  ih  rela 
tion  to  the  two  gentlemen.  At  last  he  who 
was  talking  to  the  woman  seemed  to  give  up 
his  object  in  despair,  'and  returning  to  his 
young  companion  at  the  table,  he  conversed 
with  him  in  a  low  tone  for  some  minutes. 
They  were  resolving  in  what  way  it  would  be 
best  for  them  to  proceed  in  order  to  gain  their 
object,  when  they  were  interrupted  by  the  ap 
proach  of  a  stout  six  foot  individual,  much 
taller  and  larger  than  the  rest  of  his  party, 
and  evidently  their  bully.  This  fellow  ab 
ruptly  approached  their  seats,  and  declared  in 
a  blunt,  insulting  tone  that  he  must  have  some 
of  their  wine.  The  youngest  of  the  two 
gentlemen  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant,  and 
prepared  for  an  assault,  but  at  a  significant 
look  from  his  companion,  he  stepped  back 
quietly  to  his  seat  again,  though  his  flushed 
cheek  showed  that  it  cost  him  an  effort  not  to 
resist  the  insult  at  once. 

"  I  say  that  I  will  have  a  glass  of  your 
wine,"  reiterated  the  bully. 

"You  had  better  return  to  your  friends 
peaceably,"  said  the  eldest  of  the  gentlemen. 
"  I  seek  no  quarrel  with  you,  but  you  cannot 
taste  that  wine." 

"  Cannot  1" 

"  That  was  my  word,  sir." 

"  We  will  see  about  that,"  said  the  bully, 
blustering  towards  the  table. 

He  was  really  a  very  powerful  man  physi 
cally,  but  the  development  of  his  figure,  though 
evincing  great  strength,  was  rather  bungling, 
showing  large  limbs  and  a  bloated  figure,  with 
a  preponderance  of  abdomen,  while  he  who 
thus  opposed  them  all  presented  exactly  the 
opposite  style  of  power.  Small  at  the  waist, 
with  limbs  neatly  tapering  in  their  formation. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


but  with  that  breadth  of  chest  and  develop 
ment  of  shoulders  that  showed  how  powerful 
were  the  muscles  and  sinews  of  the  man. 
These  tokens  had  not  escaped  the  practised 
eyes  of  the  rogues,  but  then  they  were 
three  to  one,  and  counted  on  an  easy  and 
bloodless  victory,  in  case  of  absolute  opposition, 
which  they  scarcely  anticipated, under  the  exist 
ing  circumstances,  notwithstanding  the  bold 
front  that  was  presented  to  their  first  advance. 

"  You  are  determined  to  insult  us,  I  see," 
continued  the  gentleman,  perfectly  calm. 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  said  the  bully,  "  it's 
all  the  same  to  me." 

"  It  will  not  be  if  you  annoy  me  any  far 
ther,"  said  the  gentleman. 

"  Give  me  the  wine,"  said  the  man,  stretch 
ing  forth  his  hand  to  take  it  from  the  table. 

But  as  the  villain  extended  his  arm,  the 
gentleman  raised  himself  to  his  full  height, 
and  with  a  blow  given  almost  as  quick  as 
thought  itself  upon  the  head  of  the  intruder, 
laid  him  lifeless  at  his  feet !  Two  of  the 
gang  now  rushed  to  their  fallen  comrade's  as 
sistance,  but  neither  of  them  could  strike  a 
blow,  both  lay  prostrate  upon  the  floor  beside 
the  other,  apparently  dead,  with  the  blood 
streaming  from  out  their  skulls.  The  gentle 
man  recovered  himself  instantly,  and  was 
no  more  discomposed  than  as  though  he  had 
merely  been  at  play.  His  cheek  was  un- 
blanched,  his  hand  was  steady,  and  he  breath 
ed  deeply  and  freely,  with  full  self-possession. 

A  volley  of  oaths  escaped  from  the  party 
opposite  who  were  maddened  into  rage,  but 
yet  did  not  advance  from  the  position  they 
held. 

"  Perhaps  there  are  more  of  ye  that  would 
like  to  be  there,"  said  the  gentleman  at  last, 
with  a  hitter  and  scornful  smile  upon  his  lip ; 
"  if  so,  come  on !" 

After  whispering  together  once  more,  the 
three  desperadoes  that  were  still  left  unharm 
ed,  seemed  about  to  make  a  simultaneous  at 
tack,  but  as  they  turned  once  more  towards 
the  two  gentlemen  they  found  them  prepared, 
and  met  the  stern,  unyielding  eye  of  the  ex 
traordinary  man  bent  keenly  upon  them  as  Ije 
said  again  calmly  : 

"  Come  on  !" 

A  howl  of  mingled  rage  and  oaths  was  the 
only  response  they  uttered. 

The  sight  of  three  of  their  comrades  lying 


insensible  if  not  dead  upon  the  floor,  caused 
the  others  to  hesitate  and  count  the  cost.  It 
looked  like  a  miracle  to  them  to  see  three 
stout  men,  renowned  fighters,  accustomed  to 
mingle  daily  and  nightly  in  brawls  of  every 
character,  thus  overcome  in  an  instant  by  a 
single  arm.  The  insult  that  the  first  had 
offered  was  not  of  course  for  the  sake  of  the 
wine  itself,  but  as  an  excuse  whereby  to  start 
a  quarrel  with  the  strangers,  and  then  in  the 
melee  to  rob  them.  All  this  time  the  woman 
looked  on  in  profound  astonishment,  but  ven 
tured  not  a  word,  while  the  drunken  party, 
with  a  sort  of  natural  instinct,  withdrew  to 
the  farthest  corner. 

"  If  the  girl  comes  in  again,"  said  the  elder 
gentleman  to  his  companion  in  an  under  tone, 
"  seize  upon  her  gently,  but  be  sure  to  retain 
her ;  tell  her  that  we  are  her  friends,  and  that 
she  must  go  with  us.  I  will  open  a  way  if  it 
be  necessary.  Loosen  your  pistols  now, 
though  they  must  not  be  used  except  as  the 
very  last  resort." 

"  I  understand,"  said  his  companion,  putting 
his  hands  into  his  coat  pockets  for  a  moment, 
where  a  quick  ear  might  have  heard  the  half 
cock  of  a  pistol's  lock. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  asked  one  of  the  gang, 
now  approaching  the  two,  yet  taking  good 
care  to  keep  out  of  reach  of  the  arm  that  had 
felled  his  companions. 

j  "  That  concerns  you  not,"  said  the  elder  of 
the  two  ;  "  we  are  here  on  our  own  business, 
and  be  assured  we  shall  perform  it.  Unless 
you  wish  to  share  the  fate  of  those  fools  upon 
the  floor,  you  had  best  keep  well  out  of  my 
way,  or  you  will  follow  suit." 

The  man  had  not  the  courage  to  tempt  hia 
fate,  and  so  retired  to  his  party. 

Thus  completely  intimidated  by  the  stern 
and  resolute  front  of  the  stranger,  the  party 
once  more  retired  to  a  corner  of  the  apartment 
to  consult.  Had  they  dared  to  use  their  fire 
arms,  they  would  have  done  so  at  once,  but 
this  they  rarely  ventured  upon,  for  they  knew 
full  well  that  the  first  discharge  and  repor\ 
would  bring  the  police  down  upon  them  am 
force. 

In  the  mean  time,  startled  by  the  noise  she 
had  overheard,  caused  by  the  conflict,  Edith's 
curiosity  had  brought  her  into  the  room,  when 
the  younger  of  the  gentlemen  seized  her  by 
the  arm  and  drew  her  to  his  side.  He  toid 


10 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


her  that  they  were  her  friends,  and  that  if  she 
would  go  with  them  they  would  protect  and 
cherish  her.  Edith  believed  him  at  once,  for 
there  was  truth  written  on  every  line  of  his 
frank,  open  countenance,  and  so  far  from  at 
tempting  to  release  herself,  she  only  clung 
more  closely  to  his  side,  while  the  old  woman 
fiercely  ordered  her  away  to  the  other  room. 

"  Edith,"  screamed  the  woman,  in  a  tower 
ing  passion. 

The  child  hesitated,  but  her  companion  held 
her  firmly. 

"  Edith,  come  away,  I  will  flay  you 
alive,"  continued  the  hag. 

Long  custom  had  rendered  the  child  so  obe 
dient  to  the  woman's  authority,  that  she  al 
most  struggled  with  him  who  now  held  her, 
in  order  to  obey  the  rude  summons  that  was 
made  upon  her.  But  a  few  quieting  and  en 
couraging  words  from  her  new  friend  pacified 
her,  and  she  remained  quiet  by  his  side  not 
withstanding  the  almost  frenzied  rage  and 
threats  of  the  woman  behind  the  bar. 

"  Now  is  the  time,"  said  the  eldest  of  the 
two,  "  get  into  the  street  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  hurry  away.  Don't  mind  me.  I'll  bring 
up  the  rear,  but  don't  loose  your  hold  of  the 
child — if  anything  happens  to  me,  take  her  to 
the  house  and  take  care  of  lier.  Remember." 

This  was  said  in  a  hurried  whisper  between 
a  lull  of  the  noise  and  confusion ;  and 
having  secured  possession  of  the  child,  the 
two  began  gradually  to  make  their  way  towards 
the  door,  near  which  fortunately  they  had  been 
sitting.  But  a  new  phase  was  now  put  upon 
the  matter  by  the  woman,  who  appealed  to  her 
friends  to  know  if  they  were  going  to  look 
tamely  on  and  see  her  servant  kidnapped  be 
fore  their  very  eyes,  nor  lift  a  hand  to  prevent 
it.  Thus  aroused,  the  burglars  seemed  to  re 
solve  upon  one  more  assault  upon  the  strangers. 
But  he  who  had  already  proved  so  fatal  to 
their  companions,  receded  slowly  backwards, 
never  taking  his  eye  from  them.  He  knew 
very  well  the  game  they  would  now  play. 

They  had  learned  by  experience,  and  now 
hH  enemies  came  on  more  cautiously  and  all 
together ;  it  was  the  only  way  that  promised 
them  success.  He  saw  that  it  would  be  fatal 
to  permit  them  to  attack  him  in  this  way,  and 
with  a  wonderful  display  of  strength  and  agil 
ity  ne  sprang  among  them,  felling  another  to 
the  floor,  and  with  one  blow  breaking  the  arm 


of  a  fifth  person  so  that  it  hung  useless  by  hiz 
side.  The  other  desperado  had  been  dealt 
with  by  the  younger  of  the  two,  who  seemed 
scarcely  less  at  home  than  the  other.  This 
bold  repulse  was  decisive,  and  amid  the  frowns 
and  curses  that  saluted  their  ears,  the  gentle- 
men  and  their  charge  made  their  way  into  the 
street. 

The  curses  and  oaths  of  the  woman  follow 
ed  them  to  the  last,  to  the  no  small  consterna 
tion  of  the  girl,  who  seemed  to  dread  her  more 
than  all  else. 

"  Rest  on  me,  Edith,"  said  the  younger  of 
the  two  men,  drawing  the  trembling  arm  of 
the  child  within  his  own,  and  half  supporting 
her  as  they  hurried  along. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  replied,  striving  to 
keep  up  with  her  companion,  who  was  hurry 
ing  with  no  little  speed  from  the  vile  neigh 
borhood. 

"  We  will  soon  be  clear  of  this  place,  and 
you  will  have  nothing  to  fear,"  he  continued, 
striving  to  cheer  the  child  as  they  went. 

"  Are  they  following  us  ?"  she  asked,  startled 
by  a  sound  behind  them. 

"  No,  no." 

"  But  I  hear  footsteps." 

"  It's  your  imagination,  Edith." 

"  I'm  sure  it's  them." 

"  No,  that  is  our  friend,"  replied  her  com 
panion,  half  turning  the  child  that  she  might 
see  that  he  who  followed  was  the  person  who 
had  rescued  her. 

"  Keep  to  the  left,"  said  the  person  behind, 
as  they  turned  from  the  street. 

"  Here  are  the  police,  and  we  need  hurry  no 
more,"  replied  his  companion. 

"  Ay,''  said  the  other,  "  but  1  do  not  care 
to  be  questioned  even  by  them^  so  cross  over 
and  pass  along  quietly.  I  will  join  you  a  few 
squares  further  up  the  street." 

It  was  not  until  the  three  had  turned  out  of 
this  second  street  into  a  large  thoroughfare, 
that  the  person  who  had  borne  the  brunt  of 
the  contest  unwound  from  his  wrist  a  small 
Indian  netting,  into  the  end  of  which  was 
woven  a  leaden  shot  of  three  or  four  pounds 
weight,  so  arranged  as  to  be  hidden  in  the 
palm  of  the  hand.  A  weapon  at  that  time  al 
most  unknown  in  England,  but  in  very  com 
mon  use  in  India.  The  secret  of  his  effective 
and  fatal  blows  was  at  once  explained — they 
were  performed  with  the  slung  shot. 


CHAPTER   II. 


THE   ADOPTED   CHILD. 

»• 

Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want, 
My  door  is  open  still. 


GOLDSMITH. 


HURRYING  towards  the  nearest  hackney 
coach  stand,  the  three  individuals  who  had 
thus  escaped  from  the  melee  in  the  tap  room 
of  St.  Giles',  stepped  into  a  vehicle,  and  the 
dr;ver  turned  his  horses'  heads  towards  the 
west  part  of  the  town,  and  after  threading 
patiently  a  labyrinth  of  streets,  the  vehicle 
drew  up  at  last  before  a  splendid  mansion,  in 
what  was  then  the  west  end  of  London,  but 
which  has  since,  by  the  continued  growth  of 
the  great  city,  become  very  nearly  or  quite  its 
centre. 

Alighting,  thp  party  entered  one  of  the 
princely  abodes  before  them.  The  servant 
who  opened  the  door  at  their  summons, 
stepped  back  in  astonishment  for  a  moment, 
bat  on  meeting  the  eye  of  the  eldest  of  the 
two  gentlemen,  he  bowed  respectfully,  and 
appearing  to  have  recovered  from  his  surprise, 
at  once  ushered  them  into  the  grand  reception 
room  of  the  house.  Both  seemed  to  be  "at 
home  here ;  the  eldest  throwing  himself  care 
lessly  into  a  richly  covered  and  cushioned 
chair,  exclaimed  with  a  sigh,  that  showed  how 
intense  his  excitement  had  been  through  all 
this  strange  business,  although^jrom  the  very 
first  he  had  appeared  so  calm  and  collected  : 

"Thank  God,  that  business  is  now  well  over, 
and  all  are  safe." 

'  It  is  over  indeed  with  some  cf  those  poor 


miscreants,"  said  the  younger  of  the  two, 
rubbing  a  slight  bruise  on  his  arm.  "J  could 
hardly  believe  that  you  overcame  them  so 
easily,  although  it  was  before  my  very  eyes ; 
but  you  struck  like  a  sledge  hammer." 

"  It  is  all  practice,  Walter,"  said  the  other, 
smiling ;  "  when  I  was  a  young  man,  I  fre 
quently  performed  harder  feats  than  this  has 
proved,  on  a  simple  bet,  and  without  this  neat 
bit  of  an  Indian  weapon  either.  You  know  I 
am  considered  to  ba  very  strong." 

"  I  shall  never  doubt  it  after  what  I  have 
seen  to-night." 

"Sit  down,  Edith,"  said  the  gentleman 
kindly,  to  the  girl,  who  had  up  to  this  time 
remained  standing,  but  who  did  not  seem  to 
hear  the  words  addressed  to  her. 

"  She  does  not  hear  you,"  said  the  other, 
observing  her  with  interest. 

Nor  did  the  poor  girl  hear  him  who  had 
addressed  her,  for  she  was  looking  about  her 
with  much  the  same  wonder  that  Aladdin  might 
have  felt  when  he  saw  the  enchanted  palace 
rise  at  his  command  from  the  bosom  of  fhe 
water.  Her  eyes  were  gazing  from  the  rich 
soft  carpet  beneath  her  feet,  to  the  gorgeously 
stuccoed  ceiling  above  her  head,  at  the  glitter 
ing  and  brilliant  chandelier  that  was  pendant 
(rom  the  ceiling,  and  at  the  splendid  array  cf 
paintings,  covering  the  vralls  in  all  directions, 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


and  finally  at  every  article  of  ornament  or  use 
with  which  the  apartment  was  thronged. 

If  possible,  she  looked  still  more  deeply  in 
teresting  to  them  now  than  when  they  had 
seen  her  remarkable  beauty  amid  all  the  vul 
gar  surroundings  of  the  tap  room, 

"  Adorned  with  all  the  simple  charm 
,    And  unbought  grace  of  nature." 

Her  coarsely-made  dress  was  so  at  variance 
with  the  proud  elegance  about  her,  that  the 
contrast  was  scarcely  less  marked  than  when 
they  had  first  met  her  that  night  and  compared 
her  beauty  with  her  situation.  Her  hands 
were  clasped  together  now  and  raised  even 
with  her  breast,  while  the  expression  of  her 
sweet  face, seemed  to  say,  "Is  it  possible  that 
there  is  so  much  beauty  and  elegance  as  this 
upon  the  earth?"  Poor  child!  She  had 
probably  never  been  beyond  the  boundaries  of 
George's-in-the-field,  nor  perhaps,  judging  by 
her  present  surprise  and  curiosity,  had  she 
ever  before  stood  upon  a  carpeted  floor. 

"Wont  you  sit  down,  Edith?"  asked  the 
eldest  of  the  gentlemen,  in  a  kind  tone  of 
voice,  Mer  marking  her  amazement  with  un 
disguised  interest  for  more  than  a  minute. 

«  Did  you  speak,  sir,'  she  asked,  timidly, 
and  as  though  awaking  from  a  deep  reverie, 
and  turning  her  large  blue  eyes  upon  him  who 
addressed  her. 

"  Yes,  my  good  girl,  wont  you  sit  down?" 
he  repeated. 

"  O,  thank  you,  sjr,  not  here,"  replied  the 
poor  child,  shrinking  quickly  back,  as  though 
she  thought  it  would  be  sacrilege  for  her  to 
touch  aught  that  she  saw. 

"  Nay,  my  good  girl,  come  hither  to  me," 
said  the  gentleman  in  the  kindest  tones,  as  he 
drew  a  seat  by  his  side  "  this  is  to  be  your 
future  home." 

"  My  home !"  repeated  Edith,  looking  first 
at  the  gentleman  and  then  about  her ;  "  Did 
you  say  that  this  is  to  be  my  hom.e,  sir  ?" 

"Ay,  my  good  Edith,  thy  home,  and  I 
will  be  thy  father." 

"  My  father!"  said  Edith,  with  a  sigh  that 
heaved  her  bosom  audibly. 

"  Yes,  Edith." 

,  Her  eyes  sought  the  floor  thoughtfully. 
She  seemed  in  an  instant  to  forget  all  the 
splendor  about  her,  and  to  be  looking  deep 
within  her  own  breast  at  some  passing  thought, 


that  had  cast  its  shadow  across  her  soul. — 
Walter,  as  the  elder  gentleman  had  called  hi« 
companion,  exhibited  the  while  scarcely  less 
surprise  and  interest  as  he  gazed  upon  the 
young  girl,  than  did  she  herself  at  the  sights 
that  met  her  eye.  Never  had  he  seen  a  being 
that  looked  so  lovely  to  him  as  did  that  or 
phan  child ;  and  as  she  stood  thus,  with  her 
head  half  reclining  upon  her  breast,  gazing 
upon  the  floor,  Walter  turned  to  the  elder 
gentleman  and  said  with  enthusiasm  : 

"  What  an  attitude  for  a  painter !  Mark 
you,  sir,  how  beautiful  this  poor  girl  is  ?  No 
wonder  that  even  a  casual  sight  of  her  in  the 
street,  should  have  resolved  you  to  rescue  so 
bright  a  jewel  from  the  filthy  den  where  we 
found  her  this  night." 

"  You  are  enthusiastic,  Walter,"  said  the 
other,  smiling  at  his  zeal. 

"  Who  would  not  be  enthusiastic  with  such 
beauty  to  prompt  him  ?" 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  said  the  elder  gen 
tleman,  gazing  in  silence  for  a  moment. 
"  Edith  ?" 

"  Sir,"  said  the  child,  arousing  from  her 
secret  thoughts. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  asked  the  eldest  of 
the  two  gentlemen,  "  of  meeting  me  a  few 
days  since  in  the  street,  near  where  you  lived, 
and  that  I  spoke  to  you  then  about  your  man 
ner  of  living,  and  some  other  matters  ?  I  was 
not  in  this  dress,  to  be  sure." 

"  I  do  remember  of  a  person's  speaking  to 
me,  but  he  wore  the  frock  of  a  butcher." 

"  It  was  T.     I  asked  you  if  you  would  like 
to  leave  the  rude  people  with  whom  you  lived 
and  go  to  a  comfortable  home.     Do  you  re 
member  you  said  you  would?" 
"  Yes,  I  recollect  you  now." 
"  And  I  told  you  I  should  inquire  about  you, 
if  you  were  a  good  girl  ?" 
"  Yes,  sir,  but—" 

"But  what,  Edith?  Speak  out  freely, 
don't  let  there  be  any  secrets  between  us." 

"  What  made  you  choose  me,  sir,  to  bring 
to  your  house  ?"  she  asked,  timidly. 

"  There  was  something  in  your  face,  Edith, 
that  reminded  me,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  of  a 
dearly  loved  sbter,  one  who  died  when  scarce 
ly  older  than  you  are  now.  She  was  my  con 
stant  playmate  and  dearest  friend,  and  our 
parting  at  the  time  seemed  like  to  break  my 
heart.  When  I  saw  you  I  resolved  for  her 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


13 


memory's  sake,  if  you  were  parentless,  as  I 
shrewdly  suspected,  that  I  would  adopt  and 
cherish  you  as  my  own  child,  that  I  might 
have  ever  near  me  one  who  should  constantly 
remind  me  of  her  who  was  taken  from  me  by 
death  years  ago." 

The  child  seemed  pleased  at  the  explanation 
which  she  heard. 

"  You  will  be  faithful  to  me  I  trust ;  nay,  I 
feel  that  you  will,  Edith,  and  also  that  you 
will  strive  to  improve  the  advantage  which  I 
shall  supply  you.  Will  you  not  ?" 

"Indeed  I  will  try,  sir,  but  I  hardly  under 
stand  what  you  mean.  You  are  too  kind  to 
me,"  she  said,  .as  the  tears  sprang  into  her 
eyes  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  met  that 
night.  ^ 

"  Nay,  my  good  girl,  do  not  weep,"  said  her 
patron ;  "  all  I  ask  in  return  from  you,  Edith, 
will  be  to  try  to  think  kindly  of  me,  and  to  do 
as  I  shall  advise  you  for  your  own  good." 

"  I  will  obey  you,  sir,  in  all  things,"  said 
the  still  sobbing  girl. 

"Commence  by  drying  those  tears,"  said 
the  gentleman,  pleasantly. 

"Can  I  stay  here?" 

"  Of  course  you  can.  I  tell  you  it  shall  be 
your  home  for  the  future." 

"  But  those  people  will  take  me  away  from 
here,"  said  the  girl,  almost  trembling  at  the 
thought  of  returning  to  the  tap  room,  which 
seemed  to  chill  her  very  blood. 

"  No  fear  of  that,  my  good  girl." 

"  But  they  are  very  cunning,  sir,  and  can 
do  almost  anything  they  wish." 

.*'  You  need  not  fear  for  your  safety  here, 
Edith,"  said  her  patron ;  "  I  will  place  you  as 
far  above  their  reach  as  though  you  were  a 
princess  of  the  royal  household.  Besides, 
you  saw  how  easily  I  managed  them  to-night, 
did  you  not?" 

"  O,  yes,  I  know  you  are  very  brave  and 
strong,  but  you  really  will  not  let  me  go  back 
to  that  place  again  ?"  she  said,  imploringly. 

"  No,  my  good  girl,  never.  You  need  have 
no  fear  of  that." 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  sir,"  said  the  poor  child, 
kneeling  by  his  side. 

No  emotion  was  visible  in  the  face  of  him 
whom  the  child  addressed.  His  feelings 
seemed  to  be  under  the  most  thorough  and 
perfect  control,  and  yet  it  was  not  from  hard- 
heartedness,  for  true  feeling  was  too  strongly 


manifested  in  his  general  bearing  and  disposi 
tion,  to  allow  of  such  a  conclusion  as  that. — 
He  raised  the  young  girl  from  the  floor  and 
kindly  parting  the  soft  hair  from  her  forehead, 
touched  a  bell  at  his  side  for  a  servant. 

Walter  was  much  younger  in  years  and 
experience,  his  heart  was  more  impressible, 
his  feelings  more  impetuous  than  those  of  his 
late  companion  in  the  night's  adventure ;  and 
his  eyes  were  now  full  to  overflowing  as  he 
gazed  upon  the  scene  before  him.  Edith  look 
ed  towards  him  as  he  sat  thus,  and  seeming 
suddenly  to  recollect  herself,  started  up  and 
walking  quickly  towards  him,  said  in  the  most 
innocent  and  unaffected  manner : 

"  I  ought  to  thank  you  too,  sir,  for  bringing 
me  safely  away  from  that  place.  It  was  very 
kind  of  you,  sir.  You  were  hit  by  a  blow  that 
was  meant  for  me.  I  saw  you  raise  your 
arm  to  keep  it  from  my  body.  It  must  have 
hurt  you — I  know  it  must." 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear — "  he  was  going  to 
say  "  child,"  but  Edith  was  so  nearly  ap 
proached  to  womanhood  in  her  beauJ^of  face 
and  form,  that  he  hesitated  for  a  l^Pnent  in 
his  speech,  and  then  said,  "  O,  my  dear  girl, 
it  was  a  mere  scratch  that  I  received ;  had  the 
villain  harmed  you,  I  would  have  shot  him 
through  the  heart." 

"Ah!  who  has  raised  up  for  me  such  good 
friends  ?"  said  the  girl,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other ;  "  I  am  very,  very  grateful." 

".Thomas,"  said  the  gentleman  to  the  ser 
vant  who  answered  his  bell. 

"  Sir." 

"  Send  Mrs.  Mario w  to  me  immediately." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

The  man  bowed  low  and  disappeared  on  Kis 
errand,  as  directed. 

In'  a  few  moments  an  elderly  female  ap 
peared,  with  a  bunch  of  keys  at  her  waist, 
and  bearing  in  her  general  appearance  the 
tokens  and  characteristics  of  a  housekeeper. 
She  courtseyed  respectfully,  and  requested  to 
know  the  commands  of  the  elder  gentleman, 
who  was  evidently  the  master  of  the  house. 
At  the  same  time  she  gazed  with  undisguised 
amazement,  curiosity  and  wonder  at  Edith, 
who  stood  there  in  her  coarse  dress,  and  to 
the  housekeeper's  eye  appearing  so  very 
queerly. 

"Mrs.  Marlow,  this  young  lady  is  Miss 
Edith." 


14 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


The  housekeeper  looked  puzzled,  but  re 
mained  silent. 

"This  is  my  adopted  child,  and  is  to  be 
treated  in  every  particular  with  the  full  at 
tention  and  respect  that  such  a  relationship 
claims  from  you  and  all  that  are  in  this 
house." 

".  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  housekeeper,  stealing 
a  glance  at  the  child. 

"  I  wish  particularly  that  you  should  exert 
yourself  to  render  her  as  comfortable  and  hap 
py  as  is  possible  to  make  her  under  my 
roof.  See  that  she  has  fitting  clothes  at  once, 
and  every  necessary  article  that  may  suggest 
itself.  You  understand  me,  Mrs.  Marlow  ?" 

"  I  believe  I  do,  sir,"  replied  the  good  natur- 
ed  looking  housekeeper. 

"  And,  Mrs.  Marlow,  first  see  that  she  has 
some  proper  refreshments." 

"  I  will,  sir." 

"And  order  a  warm  bath  into  the  north 
chamber ;  that  will  be  hers." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Inshort,  Mrs.  Marlow,  I  entrust  her  to 
you,"«d  her  master,  with  emphasis. 

"  Edith,"  he  continued,  "  you  will  go  to 
Mrs.  Marlow  for  everything  you  may  desire. 
It  will  be  her  chief  duty  to  render  you  com 
fortable  and  happy,  and  if  there  be  aught, 
however  simple,  that  is  unpleasant  to  you  or 
that  in  any  way  mars  your  peace  of  mind, 
then,  Edith,  I  wish  you  to  come  always  to 
me.  And  now  good  night,  my  child,  and 
pleasant  dreams  to  your  pillow," 

"  Good  night,  sir,"  said  Edith,  her  young 
bosom  heaving  quickly  with  the  host  of  strange 
and  new  emotions  that  filled  it,  and  then 
turning  to  Walter  she  courtseyed  with  a 
natural  grace  and  sweetness  of  manner,  and 
wishing  him  also  a  "  good  night,"  disappeared 
with  the  housekeeeper. 

Impressed  by  the  directions  which  she  had 
received,  Mrs.  Marlow  rather  sought  to  fulfil 
them  than  to  importune  Edith  as  it  regarded 
herself.  Indeed  the  housekeeper  was  too 
well  bred  to  appear  inquisitive,  and  thus  the 
poor  girl  escaped  the  catechising  that  she 
might  have  experienced,  had  her  new  ac 
quaintance  been  less  considerate  and  more  of 
a  gossip.  Mrs.  Marlow  was,  of  course,  exer 
cised  by  no  small  degree  of  wonder  and  curi 
osity  to  find  a  poor  destitute  girl  thus  brought 
into  the  house,  and  at  once  admitted  to  its 


highest  privileges.  Bat  her  master,  she  knew 
very  well,  was  not  a  person  to  have  his  orders 
called  in  question,  had  she  felt  inclined  to  do 
so,  though  the  fact  was,  the  housekeeper's 
sympathies  were  at  once  enlisted  in  Edith's 
behalf.  She  had  a  liberal  and  truly  Christian 
heart,  and  the  sight  of  poverty  or  misery  in 
any  form  would  excite  her  commiseration,  but 
when  enforced  by  such  gentle  innocence  and 
beauty  as  in  Edith's  case,  she  was  devoted  to 
its  alleviation. 

Edith,  as  she  followed  the  housekeeper, 
seemed  to  feel  that  she  was  her  friend  at  once. 

If  the  poor  girl  had  been  surprised  at  the 
elegance  and  richness  that  met  her  view  in 
the  reception  room,  how  much  more  was  she 
astonished  at  the  luxury  of  the  chamber  that 
she  was  told  was  designed  for  her.  The  de 
lightful  and  invigorating  sensation  of  the 
warm  bath,  the  profuseness  of  linen,  the  al 
most  miraculous  cleanliness  of  everything 
around  her,  the  lofty  tented  bedstead  with  its 
silken  curtains,  and  everything  in  a  style  of 
luxury  to  correspond.  Edith  closed  her  eyes 
for  a  moment,  and  recalled  her  old  bed  of 
straw  in  the  vile  home  she  had  left,  and  then 
opening  them  again,  would  look  afresh  upon 
the  display  of  taste  and  wealth  that  surround 
ed  her  on  all  sides. 

Mrs.  Marlow  was  an  exception  to  most 
housekeepers,  having  by  some  chance  been 
born  with  a  heart.  A  simple  thing,  to  be 
sure,  and  something  that  persons  in  her  ca 
pacity  frequently  look  upon  as  quite  a  super 
fluity,  and,  therefore,  rarely  call  it  into  use. 
She  neither  delighted  in  scolding  the  butler 
and  head  cook,  nor  in  rendering  the  chamber 
maids  as  completely  miserable  as  possible,  nor 
was  her  tongue  one  of  that  sort  that  have 
eclipsed  all  modern  approaches  to  perpetual 
motion.  In  a  woid,  Mrs.  Marlow  was  a  very 
pattern  of  what  a  housekeeper  should  be — 
quiet,  industrious  and  inclined  to  promote  her 
own  happiness  by  rendering  all  about  her 
pleasant  and  agreeable. 

As  to  the  task  that  had  just  been  set  her  by 
the  master  of  the  house,  she  seemed  to  be  de 
lighted  with  it,  and  was  never  tired  of  an 
swering  the  multitude  of  questions  that  Edith, 
in  her  curiosity,  addressed  to  her;  nor  of  in 
structing  her  in  the  use  of  everything  she 
beheld.  Appreciating  this  kindness,  Edith 
felt  quite  at  home,  and  when  she  had  got 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


15 


fairly  ready  to  retire,  she  threw  her  arms 
about  the  housekeeper's  neck  and  kissed  her 
so  affectionately  and  with  such  an  honest  im 
pulse,  that  Mrs.  Marlow  declared  she  could 
not  help  loving  her  tenderly  and  at  once. 

The  good  woman  stole  quietly  in  a  number 
of  times,  after  her  charge  had  fallen  asleep,  to 
mark  her  breathing  and  assure  herself  that  all 
was  as  it  should  be.  Edith  slept  long  and 
sweetly;  her  dreams  were  of  the  happiest 
kind,  induced  by  the  physical  comforts  she 
had  realized  before  retiring;  nor  did  she 
awake  until  the  housekeeper  attended  her 
with  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  hot  roll  at  the  bed 
side. 

How  refreshed  she  was !  She  never  re 
membered  having  enjoyed  such  rest  before. 
How  bright  her  eyes  looked,  and  how  heartily 
she  laughed  at  Mrs.  Marlow  to  think  that  she 
would  have  her  eat  her  breakfast  before  ris 
ing.  But  she  required  little  urging  to  per 
suade  her,  for  the  coffee  was  made  by  Mrs. 
Marlow's  own  hands,  and  such  as  she  had 
never  tasted  before,  and  the  bread  was  fresh 
and  so  white  and  light.  The  butter,  too,  was 
so  sweet,  the  cream  so  thick  and  rich,  and  in 
deed  everything  seemed  to  the  simple  girl,  in 
her"  innocence  and  inexperience,  like  a  mir 
acle. 

"You  have  slept  long  and  soundly,  and 
look  very  much  refreshed,"  said  the  house 
keeper. 

"  O,  I  am  so  rested  and  refreshed,"  said 
Edith,  "but  what  time  is  it?" 

"  Nearly  one  o'clock,"  said  Mrs.  Marlow, 
consulting  her  watch. 

"Nearly  one !"  exclaimed  the  child,  in  as 
tonishment. 

"  Yes,  a  quarter  to  one." 

"  Afternoon !" 

"O,  it  is  not  luncheon  time  yet,"  said  Mrs. 
Marlow. 

"  Is  it  possible  I  have  slept  half  the  day  ?" 
she  asked,  in  amazement. 

"  You  were  very  much  fatigued,  Edith," 
said  the  housekeeper,  "  and  my  directions 
were  not  to  permit  you  to  be  disturbed  at  any 
rate." 

"  Indeed,  you  are  all  very  kind  to  me,"  said 
Edith,  thoughtfully. 

"  It  is  a  very  good  hour,'"  continued  the 
housekeeper.  "  We  do  not  lunch  until  two, 


and  you  have  ample  time  to  dress  you  before 
that." 

"  O,  yes,"  said  Edith,  "  I  can  dress  me  in 
one  minute,  I'm  sure." 

"  Nay,  my  dear,  it  will  require  half  an  hour 
for  me  to  dress  that  pretty  hair  of  yours 
alone,"  said  Mrs.  Marlow,  kindly. 

"  You  dress  my  hair  ?  O,  no,  no.  See 
how  quickly  1  can  braid  it  up." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  but  I  want  to  do  it  a  la 
mode"  said  the  housekeeper. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Edith,  curiously, 
wondering  what  Mrs.  Marlow  meant. 

"  I  mean  to  dress  it  fashionably,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Marlow,  smiling. 

".O,  fashionably?  Well,  you  shall  do  as 
you  please  ;  but  it  is  too  bad  for  you  to  have 
such  a  trouble  just  about  my  hair,"  said  Edith. 

"  I  have  nothing  else  to  do,  my  dear ;  so  sit 
by  the  glass  here,  and  will  dress  it." 

The  child  obeyed,  still  wondering  why  so 
nice  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Marlow  should  think 
that  she  must  taker  the  trouble  to  dress  her 
hair. 

The  housekeeper,  smiling  at  th^fcmple 
notions  the  child  entertained  in  relation  to  the 
matter  of  the  toilet,  soon  explained  to  Edith 
that  it  was  his  wish  for  her  to  do  so,  and  that 
she  must  learn  to  dress  and  appear  very  differ 
ent  from  what  she  had  done  heretofore,  and 
untwisting  her  soft  and  luxuriant  hair,  the 
good  woman  braided  the  rich  tresses  and 
plaited  them  so  neatly  and  becomingly,  that 
when  Edith  looked  into  the  glass,  she  ex 
claimed  with  delight,  and  declared  that  Mrs. 
Marlow  must  be  a  witch,  though  a  dear  good^ 
one. 

When  the  young  girl  met  her  two  friends 
at  table,  what  a  metamorphosis  had  taken 
place  in  her  personal  appearance  !  She  was 
dressed  in  pure  white  muslin,  supplied  by  the 
good  Mrs.  Mailow.  Her  hair  was  so  smooth 
and  becoming,  her  long  and  refreshing  sleep 
and  the  effect  of  the  grateful  bath  she  had  en 
joyed,  added  to  the  cheerfulness  that  was 
prompting  her  overflowing  heart,  had  all  to 
gether  set  a  soft  and  sweetly  appropriate  car 
nation  in  her  fair  cheek  that  was  not  there 
before.  She  came  so  artless  and  happy  to 
take  the  hands  of  both  and  look  such  wealth 
of  gladness  and  thankful  joy  from  he  soft 
blue  eyes,  that  Walter  turned  to  his  elder 
companion  in  silent  admiration. 


CHAPTER    III. 


THE    DUEL. 


Revenge  is  now  the  end 

That  I  do  chew  —I'll  challenge  him. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


BROMPTON  was  a  man  of  some 
three  and  fifty  years,  the  last  representation 
of  an  ancient  and  aristocratic  family,  renown 
ed  no  less  for  their  political  position  than  for 
their  great  wealth,  being  a  family  of  the  old 
English  stock.  His  father  particularly  had 
been  distinguished  fomaany  years  in  parlia 
ment,  and  by  his  undeviating  allegiance  to  the 
interests  of  the  royal  party,  and  his  consistent 
devotedness  to  the  interests  of  the  king,  had 
won  the  entire  confidence,  not  only  of  his  own 
party,  but  of  the  monarch  himself,  and  in  repay 
ment  he  had  received  many  distinguished  hon 
ors  at  his  hands.  Already  well  endowed  in 
the  world's  goods,  he  had  been  enabled  b,y  the 
king's  favor  to  amass  a  princely  fortune,  and 
this  with  his  honorable  name  and  station,  he 
transmitted  to  his  only  child,  the  present  Sir 
Richard. 

But  the  son  was  very  unlike  the  father. — 
The  latter  was  a  domestic  man,  gentle,  affec 
tionate  and  loving,  and  no  man  could  have 
been  happier  in  his  domestic  relations. 
Whereas  the  former  was  impetuous,  though 
not  ungenerouss  fierce  when  crossed  in  his 
slightest  will,  and  from  circumstances  that  will 
appear,  often  jealous  beyond  endurance.  The 
general  character  and  disposition  of  the  son 
had  been  most  materially  affected  by  the  oc 


currence  of  a  serious  and  unfortunate  acci 
dent,  which  happened  to  him  while  he  was 
yet  quite  a  boy,  and  which  had  caused  him  to 
be  lame  in  one  limb  ever  since — and  thus  it 
was  very  evident  he  must  remain  until  the 
end  of  life.  This  accident  which  occurred  at 
a  gymnasium  when  he  was  at  the  age  of 
fourteen,  was  of  so  serious  a  character  that  it 
laid  him  upon  a  bed  for  nearly  a  twelvemonth, 
and  during  the  most  of  this  period  of  time, 
caused  him  the  most  intense  and  unremitting 
suffering. 

This  year  of  pain,  idleness  and  confinement 
was  a  severe  trial  for  a  high  spirited  and  re 
markably  active  boy,  and  doubtless  it  went  far 
towards  souring  a  disposition  already  a  little 
peevish  and  restless  from  over-indulgence,  for 
his  parents,  could  not  find  it  in  their  heart  to 
deny  him  anything,  inasmuch  as  he  was  an 
only  son.  Notwithstanding  this  unfortunate 
accident,  he  grew  up  still  adhering  to  a  love 
and  passion  for  a  physical  development  of  his 
frame,  and  his  first  visit  abroad,  after  leaving 
the  sick  room  where  he  had  been  so  long  con 
fined,  was  to  the  gymnasium,  when  he  per 
formed  the  very  feat  successfully,  which  fail 
ing  in  before,  had  caused  him  a  broken  ankle. 

Though  hS  necessarily  walked  lame  ever 
after,  still  his  carriajre  had  that  wv  d 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


17 


and  grace,  that  early  and  continued  mingling 
in  good  society  most  generally  impart.  The 
cultivation  of  his  mind,  too,  was  far  above 
that  of  the  generality  of  the  higher  classes  of 
society. 

Possessed  of  a  natural  shrewdness  and  apt 
itude,  he  had  mastered  his  studies  promptly, 
and  graduated  with  honor  at  an  early  age  at 
Oxford.  Time  passed  on,  and  his  father  de 
siring  to  have  some  trusty  person  to  visit  his 
immense  possessions  in  India  and  to  look  af 
ter  his  interests  there,  induced  his  son  to 
accept  of  a  government  appointment  at  Cal 
cutta,  and  thus  to  go  out  with  a  double  pur 
pose.  Just  at  this  time  there  were  some 
matters  of  the  utmost  delicacy  being  transacted 
in  that  quarter  for  the  government,  and  the 
charge  of  this  business  fell  at  once  into  his 
hands.  This  he  conducted  to  such  a  success 
ful  issue  that  on  his  return  to  England,  though 
very  young  for  the  honor,  he  was  knighted  by 
the  king. 

Soon  after  his  return,  the  father  died  and 
left  his  son  the  sole  heir  of  his  immense  for 
tune,  the  mother  having  preceded  Sir  Rob 
ert,  some  years  previous,  to  the  grave.  The 
son  now  found  himself  alone  in  the  world, 
with  neither  kith  nor  kin  to  care  for.  He 
never  had  a  brother  and  only  one  sister,  WAQ 
had  died  quite  young.  Having  already  run 
through  with  the  ordinary  dissipations  of  the 
capital  before  he  went  to  India,  he  was  tho 
roughly  disgusted  with  that  species  of  life, 
and  it  therefore  held  out  no  inducements  to 
him.  Though  he  was  by  no  means  of  an  indo 
lent  disposition,  yet  he  had  not  the  taste  that 
would  lead  him  to  master  fresh  studies,  or  to 
engage  in  politics  as  his  father  had  done  be 
fore  him,  and  thus  in  fact  he  rather  endured 
life  than  enjoyed  it,  for  nearly  a  year  after  the 
decease  of  his  father. 

Travel  at  last  suggested  itself  to  him  as  a 
mode  whereby  to  drive  away  ennui,  and  in 
this  mood  he  finally  went  abroad.  After  an 
absence  of  less  thau  two  years,  he  returned 
once  more*lo  London,  and  surprised  his  friends 
and  the  fashionable  world  by  bringing  with 
him  a  young  and  beautiful  wife.  One  whose 
beauty  and  nobleness_of  bearing  stamped  her 
at  once  as  of  high  descent,  and  who  command 
ed  immediately  that  attention  and  respect  that 
is  ever  shown  to  dignity  and  beauty  combined. 
Sir  Robert  Brompton  was  beyond  a  doubt,  if 
2 


not  the  best,  at  least  one  of  the  best  matches 
pecuniarily  speaking,  in  all  London;  and  their 
marriage  caused  no  little  remark  for  a  period 
among  the  beauty  and  fashion  o  the  great 
metropolis,  until  the  new  couple  settled  down 
into  domestic  life. 

It  is  true  Sir  Robert's  wife  was  some  twelve 
years  his  junior,  and  he  himself  was  a  little 
old-bachelorish  in  his  feelings  and  notions,  yet 
still  they  seemed  to  be  very  happy  and  cheer 
ful  together;  no  one  even  of  the  envious,  had 
aught  to  say  to  the  contrary.  But  there  were 
clouds  in  the  future  that  portended  storms. 
Sir  Robert  at  least  could  already  see  deepen, 
ing  shadows  crossing  their  pathway. 

Their  house  had  become  the  centre  of  much 
fashion  and  style,  and  almost  nightly  balls  and 
routs  formed  their  evening's  entertainment. 
Sir  Robert  was  liberal  to  a  fault ;  no  wish 
of  his  wife's  remained  unsatisfied;  and  her 
taste  and  judgment  had  ornamented  her  draw 
ing  rooms  to  perfection.  She  was  young  an 
and  rather  inexperienced  in  the  world's  ways , 
very  beautiful,  and  of  course  the  object  of 
much  homage  and  attention.  To  say  that  this 
was  not  agreeable  to  her,  would  be  to  say  that 
she  did  not  possess  the  ordinary  feelings  and 
promptings  of  her  sex ;  but  to  charge  her  with 
any  infidelity  in  thought  or  deed  to  Sir  Rob 
ert,  would  be  the  farthest  thing  possible  from 
the  truth.  He  was  ever  honored  and  respect 
ed  by  her. 

And  yet  oftentimes  when  he  observed  her 
smiling  and  enjoying  the  homage  of  some 
sleek,  well-formed  sprig  of  the  aristocracy,  he 
would  glance  at  his  own  unseemly  lameness, 
and,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  utter  a  half-sup 
pressed  sigh.  That  he  loved  his  wife  tender 
ly,  was  beyond  a  question;  his  every  day  life 
gave  ample  proof  of  this,  and  at  heart  he  also 
believed  that  his  love  was  fully  returned. 

Lord  Henry  Amherst,  a  young  man  of 
surpassing  attractions,  both  mentally  and  in 
his  manly  and  noble  bearing,  about  this  period 
became  acquainted  with  the  lady  of  Sir  Robert 
Brompton.  He  was  a  frequent  guest  at  her 
parties,  and  a  constant  and  devoted  follower  in 
her*  train.  His  position  and  title  in  grade, 
were  considerably  above  those  of  the  Bromp 
ton  family,  and  the  lady  could  not  but  feel 
flattered  by  his  open  and  devoted  attention  to 
her;  but  it  was  her  vanity  only  that  was 
pleased. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


Sir  Robert  at  first  noticed  him  no  more 
than  he  did  a  score  of  other  visitants  at  his 
house  and  board,  until  by  some  chance  a  whis 
pered  remark  one  night,  though  not  addressed 
to  him,  yet  met  his  ear,  and  a  live  coal  drop 
ped  upon  powder  could  hardly  have  been  more 
instantaneous  in  its  effect.  He  became  as 
watchful  of  Lord  Amherst  as  though  he  were 
his  bitterest  enemy,  seeking  to  injure  him  in 
the  keenest  point ;  his  very  glances  were  met 
half-way  by  those  of  Sir  Robert,  who  sought 
by  thus  intercepting,  to  interpret  them.  He 
was  far  too  proud  to  speak  to  his  wife  upon 
that  subject;  indeed  the  idea  of  doing  such  a 
thing,  never  for  a  moment  crossed  his  mind. 

Satisfied  at  last  that  Lord  Amherat's  inten 
tions  upon  his  wife  were  of  no  honorable 
character,  Sir  Robert  took  an  opportunity  on 
one  or  two  occasions  to  evince  to  him  that  his 
visits  Avere  no  longer  desirable,  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  at  his  house.  But  his  lord 
ship  was  too  strongly  attached  to  take  the  hint 
at  all,  and  continued  both  his  visits  and  his 
attention  to  Sir  Robert's  lady,  with  most  con 
stant  devotion.  As  this  sort  of  life  went  on, 
Sir  Robert's  naturally  jealous  disposition  be 
gan  to  ripen, 

"  For  his  mind  , 

Had  grown  suspicion's  sanctuary." 

and  he  consequently  magnified  the  most  tri 
fling  familiarities  into  matters  of  the  greatest 
import ;  and  though  he  said  nothing,  yet  he 
brooded  in  secret  over  the  feelings  that  in 
fluenced  him,  until  he  felt  sure  that  his  wife 
had  married  him  not  for  himself  alone,  but  for 
his  known  wealth,  and  to  suit  herself  with  a 
position  in  life,  where,  by  her  management, 
she  could  draw  about  her  such  as  would  please 
her  vanity  and  taste.  Indeed  it  looked  so 
plain  to  him  now,  that  he  thought  himself  a 
fool  not  to  have  discovered  it  before. 

Every  kind  word  that  his  wife  uttered  to 
him,  now  seemed  to  his  jealous  heart  impreg 
nated  with  gall  and  falsehood ;  and  every  gen 
tle  and  affectionate  look,  was  set  down  by  his 
suspicious  soul  as  a  lie.  Yet  still,  for  all  this, 
he  felt  that  he  loved  her  beyond  all  else  in 
life,  and  that,  in  spite  of  these  harrowing 
thoughts,  she  was  most  incalculably  dear  to 
him.  "O,"  he  would  exclaim,  "would  to 
God  that  I  were  a  poor  man,  and  she  my  wife  ; 
would  that  I  could  prove  that  she  loved  me 
truly  and  faithfully." 


Still  most  innocently  did  the  lady  of  Sir 
Robert  Brompton  smile  gratefully  upon  Lord 
Amherst,  a  consideration  which  he,  of  course, 
translated  with  a  lover's  eye  ;  and  still  he  al 
lowed  her  with  all  the  devotion  of  one  com 
pletely  enslaved  and  infatuated  by  her  beauty. 
The  annoyance  that  Sir  Robert  thus  endured, 
can  hardly  be  calculated ;  he  was  continually 
upon  coals  of  fire,  and  he  felt  that  this  could 
not  continue  long. 

It  was  nearly  the  hour  for  breaking  up  the 
dance  and  merriment,  one  night  at  their  hos 
pitable  mansion,  when  Sir  Robert,  who  kept 
his  eyes  constantly  upon  Lord  Amherst,  saw 
him  pick  up  the  lady's  handkerchief,  which 
she  had  apparently  dropped  by  accident,  and 
also  observed  him  slip  within  its  folds  a  billet, 
and  then  turning  abruptly,  leave  the  apart 
ment.  Sir  Robert  immediately  hastened  to 
his  wife's  side,  and  after  pausing  for  a  mo 
ment  so  as  not  to  appear  abrupt,  said : 

"  Your  handkerchief  a  moment,  my  dear, 
some  dust  has  fallen  upon  your  mantle,  and  I 
will  brush  it  off." 

Unconscious  of  having  received  any  note  or 
aught  else  of  an  improper  character  from 
Lord  Amherst,  the  lady  at  once,  smilingly, 
handed  the  handkerchief  to  Sir  Robert,  from 
which  he  extracted  the  note,  and  after  pre 
tending  to  brush  her  mantle,  he  returned  it 
to  her  again,  satisfied  that  she  at  least  was  in 
nocent  of  Lord  Amherst's  effort  to  communi 
cate  with  her  in  this  clandestine  manner.  He 
retired  at  once  to  read  the  note. 

Having  reached  the  privacy  of  his  library, 
he  opened  the  note  and  read  as  follows : 

"  DEAREST  LADY  : 

"  It  must  be  that  ere,  this  you  have  dis 
covered  the  burning  and  ungovernable  passion 
that  I  bear  you.  live  only  in  the  light  of 
your  smiles,  and  am  impatient  and  unhappy 
every  hour  that  I  pass  away  from  your  side. 
I  have  never  dared  to  tell  you  this,  but  I  have 
looked  it  a  hundred  times.  Ah  !  lady,  give 
me  leave  to  hope  that  this  feeling,  that  pos 
sesses  my  whole  soul,  is  mutual.  Do  not  drive 
me  from  you,  for  thus  speaking  frankly  the 
devotion  that  prompts  me.  I  will  not  ask  you 
to  write  to  me,  but  give  me  a  flower,  a  leaf,  a 
ring,  anything,  dear  lady,  that  I  may  under 
stand  as  a  token  of  encouragement.  O,  how 
impatiently  I  shall  await  the  moment  when 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


19 


we  shall  meet  again,  after  you  shall  have  read 
this.     May  I  not  then  hope  to  receive  some 
simple  token  of  encouragement  ? 
44  Devotedly  yours, 

„  AMHERST." 

Sir  Robert  Brompton  was  not  a  man  to 
throw  away  words  in  invectives,  or  waste 
strength  in  profitless  anger.  He  did  pause 
for  a  moment,  to  wonder  within  his  own  mind 
what  his  wife  would  have  done,  had  she  re 
ceived  this  missive ;  and  the  thought  crossed 
him  that  it  might  be  well  to  send  it  to  her 
still,  as  a  sort  of  test  to  try  her,  and  be  on  the 
watch  for  the  result.  But  this  was  in  a  mo 
ment  after  rejected,  as  unworthy  of  his  own 
character,  and  of  the  relationship  he  bore  her. 
A  moment's  pause  only  was  necessary  for 
him  to  make  up  his  mind,  as  to  what  was 
most  proper  for  him  to  do.  He  sat  down  and 
wrote  to  Lord  Amherst,  simply  enclosing  the 
guilty  letter,  and  telling  him  that  it  was  use 
less  to  multiply  words  about  such  a  matter  as 
this,  that  he  should  expect  from  him  the  im 
mediate  satisfaction  that  one  gentleman  is 
ever  ready  to  accord  to  another,  and  finished 
by  saying  that  his  friend,  who  was  the  bearer 
of  this  note,  could  arrange  matters  on  the  spot, 
for  their  meeting  at  daybreak  next  morning, 
and  that  both  for  his  lordship's  sake  and  his 
own,  he  trusted  that  the  cause  of  their  encoun 
ter  should  remain  a  .secret  even  to  their  sec 
onds.  He  closed  and  sealed  this,  and  address 
ed  it  to  Lord  Amherst. 

Hurrying  to  the  ball-room  before  it  should 
be  entirely  cleared,  Sir  Robert  singled  out  the 
most  fitting  person  for  his  object,  and  return 
ing  with  him  to  the  library,  placed  the  matter 
before  him  at  once,  of  course,  observing  the 
strictest  secrecy  relative  to  the  cause  of  the  colli 
sion.  He  urged  upon  his  friend  the  utmost 
dispatch,  and  having  arranged  a  few  necessary 
matters,  separated  from  him.  Fortunately 
he  had  chosen  one  well  calculated  to  act 
as  his  second,  in  this  delicate  affair. 

Sir  Robert's  messenger,  after  reaching  Lord 
Amherst's  quarter,  sent  up  his  name  and  also 
word  that  he  wished  to  see  his  lordship  on 
business  of  the  utmost  importance.  Thus 
summoned,  though  at  such  an  unseasonable 
hour,  Mr.  Wardsworth,  the  bearer  of  the  note, 
WAS  admitted,  and  his  lordship  received  him 
2ft  the  d' awing  room  in  his  dressing  gown. 


"  I  was  somewhat  surprised  at  the  hour  you 
have  chosen  for  your  call,  Mr.  Wardsworth," 
said  Lord  Amherst,  "  but  from  the  character 
of  your  message  by  the  servant,  I  thought  it 
best  to  see  you," 

"  1  come  on  business,  my  lord,  that  will  ad 
mit  of  no  delay." 

"  Indeed ,vsir." 

"  Your  lordship  will  oblige  me  by  casting 
your  eye  over  this,"  said  Mr.  Wardsworth, 
handing  the  note  that  Sir  Robert  had  address 
ed  to  him. 

Lord  Amherst  opened  the  seal  and  turned 
first  pale,  then  red,  for  he  understood  its  mean 
ing.  He  paused  for  a  moment  in  thought, 
and  then  said: 

"  I  presume  you  do  not  know  the  contents 
of  this  note,  sir  ?" 

"I  do  not ;  that  concerns  me  not,  as  my 
friend,  Sir  Robert,  did  not  see  fit  to  impart  it 
to  me — but  as  it  regards  the  other  matter,  I'm 
fully  prepared." 

"  True ;  you  refer  to  the  meeting,"  said 
Lord  Amherst,  abstractedly.  • 

"Exactly,  sir.  I  should  like  to  consult 
your  lordship's  taste  as  far  as  practicable." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  his  lordship,  a  little 
stiffly. 

"  I  would  suggest  Round  Head  Moor,  as  a  4 
fitting  place." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

"And  pistols  at  fifteen  paces,"  continued 
Mr.  Wardsworth,  in  quite  a  business  style. 

"  That  will  suit  me  very  well,"  said  Lord 
Amherst,  curling  the  note  in  his  hand. 

"  Perhaps  your  lordship  will  name  the 
hour,"  said  Mr.  Wardsworth. 

"As  soon  as  the  light  will  serve — the  soon 
er  the  better,  sir." 

"  Your  lordship  is  very  prompt,  and  my 
principal  will  meet  you  at  the  Moor  at  day 
light,"  said  Mr.  Wardsworth,  "and  in  the 
meantime,  I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  good 
night." 

"Good  night,  sir,"  said  Lord  Amheitt, 
ringing  for  a  servant  to  show  him  out. 

Neither  Sir  Robert  nor  Lord  Amherst  slert 
that  night,  but  both  prepared  to  pass  from  the 
gay  scenes  of  the  ball-room  to  one  of  blood 
shed.  The  few  intervening  moments  were 
employed  by  each  in  making  such  brief  M- 
rangements  relative  to  business  matlen:,  .-•?. 
might  guaid  against  casualty. 


20 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


Before  the  morning  sun  had  risen,  they  met 
in  due  form  on  Round  Head  Moor,  in  those 
days  quite  out  of  town,  but  now  embraced 
within  the  limits  of  the  great  city  itself. 

Lord  Amherst  looked  pale,  but  not  from 
fear.  Though  he  had  much  of  the  coxcomb 
in  his  character,  yet  he  was  no  craven ;  but 
that  which  paled  his  cheek  was  the  guilt  that 
he  could  not  but  acknowledge  to  his  own 
heart.  He  lacked  that  inward  sense  of  justice 
that  inspires  a  man  who  stands  up  for  a  good 
cause.  The  truth  was,  he  felt  that  he  had 
wronged  his  opponent,  and  that  he  stood  there 
a  guilty  man. 

Sir  Robert  came  upon  the  ground  without 
any  change  evinced  in  his  countenance ;  he 
was  calm  and  collected,  and  bowing  courteous 
ly  to  all  parties,  waited  for  the  seconds  to  ar 
range  the  necessary  preliminaries.  This 
done,  the  combatants  took  their  places  as 
pointed  out  to  them  by  their  seconds. 

"Are  you  ready?"  asked  the  second  on 
whom  it  had  devolved  to  give  the  word. 

A  token  of  assent  was  observed  from  either 
party. 

"  One — two — fire !" 

The  reports  of  the  two  pistols  were  simulta 
neous. 

Sir  Robert  Brompton  folded  his  arms  and 
;  remained  unharmed  where  he  stood ;  but  Lord 
Amherst  was  shot  so  severely  in  the  right 
limb,  that  he  could  not  stand.  The  seconds 
declared  that  the  object  of  the  meeting  was 
consummated,  and  the  parties,  according  to 
the  rules  of  honor,  discharged. 

Sir  Robert  then  approached  Lord  Amherst, 
and  said  in  a  low  tone  of  voice  : 

"  My  lord,  as  the  injury  that  you  have  done 
to  me  is  but  a  partial  one,  so  did  I  aim  only  to 
wound  you;  had  the  injury  been  deeper,  be 
lieve  me,  sir,  I  should  have  aimed  at  your 
heart,  and  those  who  know  me  can  tell  your 
lordship  whether  I  am  apt  to  miss  my  aim. 
But  let  me  not  taunt  a  wounded  man." 

"  Say  on,  sir,"  said  Lord  Amherst,  drawing 
•e  sigh  at  the  pain  he  felt ;  "  I  was  in  the 
wrong,  and  can  see  it  now  plainly  enough,  since 
passion  has  been  cooled  by  this  encounter." 

"Farewell,  sir,"  said  Sir  Robert;  "I  wish 
for  your  own  sake  that  your  repentance  had 
come  earlier." 

The  encounter  between  Sir  Robert  and 
Lord  Amherst  was  kept  a  profound  secret,  nor 


did  his  wife,  even,  know  that  any  trouble  had 
occurred  between  them.  She  supposed  that  a 
severe  indisposition,  caused  by  fever,  was  the 
reason  of  his  lordship's  absence,  and  matters 
went  on  at  her  parties  as  before. 

In  n©  way  did  Sir  Robert  change  towards 
his  wife.  He  was  the  same  to  her  outwardlyr 
as  he  had  ever  been  ;  but  the  cankering  worm 
gnawed  at  his  heart  still.  In  his  domestic  re 
lations,  he  was  thoroughly  miserable,  and  the 
more  so,  perhaps,  from  the  fact,  that  his  feel 
ings  found  no  outward  vent. 

At  this  stage  of  his  domestic  affairs,  his 
property  in  India  bade  fair  to  demand  his  im 
mediate  and  individual  attention.  The  im 
mense  extent  of  this  possession  and  its  enor 
mous  value,  was  such,  that  he  did  not  feel 
inclined  to  permit  it  to  suffer  in  any  way  from 
want  of  proper  supervision,  and  he  determined 
to  make  the  voyage  thither  and  back  again  as 
soon  as  it  could  be  performed,  and  at  the  same 
time  accomplish  his  purpose.  Dreading  to 
evince  in  any  way  that  he  was  in  the  least 
jealous  of  his  wife,  he  resolved  not  to  take  her 
with  him.  In  his  sensitiveness  he  feared  that 
an  idea  of  taking  her  with  him,  expressed  by 
himself,  would  lead  her  to  think  that  he  was 
fearful  to  leave  her  at  home  without  him. 

What  a  very  coward  suspicion  will  make  of 
a  man! 

He  could  not  be  long  away,  he  thought,  a 
year  at  most,  and  then  he  would  return.  Re 
turn  !  alas,  he  cared  but  little  whether  he  ever 
returned  to  London  again. 

His  parting  with  his  wife  had  nearly  led  to 
a  full  arid  honest  confession  on  his  part,  of  the 
fears  and  doubts  that  had  brooded  in  his  heart, 
for  she  hung  upon  him  so  fondly,  and  wept  so 
bitterly  at  the  prospect  of  their  long  separa 
tion,  that  for  a  time,  Sir  Robert  was  equally 
balanced  in  his  mind  as  to  whether  he  should 
not  seize  upon  so  propitious  a  moment  as  was 
now  afforded  him,  to  acknowledge  the  anguish 
that  he  felt  on  her  account,  frankly  own  to  her 
that  he  believed  his  doubts  and  fear  without 
foundation,  and  beg  her  to  forgive  him  for 
ever  entertaining  so  much  as  a  thought  reflect 
ing  upon  her  honesty  to  him.  But  that  pride, 
which  formed  so  large  an  ingredient  of  his  na 
ture,  forbade  him  to  do  so.  He  was  kind  and 
gentle  in  his  leave-taking,  and  thus  still  un 
happy,  bade  her  farewell. 

As  a  companion  and  assistant  to  him  in 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME.  . 


21 


matters  of  business,  Sir  Robert  Brompton  took 
with  him  on  his  voyage  an  humble,  but  intel 
ligent  friend,  one  whose  acquaintance  and 
friendship  he  had  made  and  cultivated  in  col 
lege,  and  whom  he  had  learned  to  like  for  his 
many  good  qualities,  though  he  was  of  very 
humble  origin,  and  indeed  at  that  time,  a  sort 
of  charity  student  at  the  university.  But  Sir 
Robert,  even  when  a  mere  lad,  was  not  one  to 
pass  by  humble  merit  unrecognized,  and  they 
became  lasting  and  true  friends.  Frederick 
Howard  was  only  too  happy  to  leave  the  hum 
ble  situation  which  he  filled,  as  attache  to 
some  city  magazine,  to  go  abroad,  and  also  to 
accept  the  liberal  pecuniary  offer  that  Sir 
Robert  made  him  for  his  services. 

"  When  we  were  in  college  together,  I  liked 
you,"  said  Sir  Robert,  "  because  you  were  not 
a  fawning,  cringing,  flattering  hanger-on  upon 
those  who  were  more  fortunate  in  the  posses 
sion  of  the  world's  goods,  than  yourself." 

"  I  know  how  to  appreciate  your  generous 
patronage,  nevertheless,  Sir  Robert,"  replied 
his  friend,  smiling, 

"  Well,  enough  of  that  matter ;  but  what 
think  you  ?  Can  this  arrangement  be  made 
to  suit  you  ?  Not  exactly  a  dark,  you  under 
stand,  but  a  friend  and  assistant — eh,  Mr. 
Howard  ?" 

"  It  will  suit  me  exactly,  sir." 

"  Very  good ;  then  it  is  a  bargain,"  said  Sir 
Robert.  "  Now,  get  ready  as  speedily  as  pos 
sible,  for  I  am  impatient  to  be  on  ship-board." 

Mr.  Howard  was  about  the  same  age  as  Sir 
Robert.  He  had  tasted  the  bitter  cup  of  mis 
fortune,  nay,  had  even  drank  its  contents  to 
the  very  dregs,  and  was  consequently  in  his 
feelings  not  a  little  misanthropic.  But  yet  his 
mind  was  too  well  balanced,  to  permit  this  to 
amount  to  any  actual  defect  in  his  general 
character.  In  a  long  voyage,  where  they 
were  thrown  so  constantly  together,  it  was  but 
natural  that  there  should  be  considerable  in 
terchange  of  feeling  and  thought  between 
them,  and  for  one  possessing  the  peculiar  feel 
ings  of  Sir  Robert,  it  was  not  singular  that  he 
should  sympathize  in  no  small  degree  with  the 
sometimes  remarkable  philosophy  and  theories 
of  the  companion  he  had  chosen.  Having 
known  him  so  long,  Sir  Robert  treated  him 
more  like  a  brother  than  a  mere  friend,  and 
thus  it  was  that  Frederick  Howard  often  spoke 
to  him  so  plainly. 


"  When  you  were  first  married,  Sir  Robert," 
said  his  companion  one  day,  as  they  sat  to 
gether,  "  you  seemed  to  belie  my  theory  alto 
gether,  as  to  there  being  no  love  beyond  the 
immediate  promptings  of  self-interest,  for  you 
and  your  lady  seemed  most  happy  and  con 
tented  together." 

"  When  I  was  first  married  ?"  said  Sir 
Robert,  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"  Ay,  I  mean  for  a  year  or  two,"  replied 
his  companion. 

"  For  a  year  or  two,  Mr.  Howard  !"  repeat 
ed  Sir  Robert,  thoughtfully,  at  the  same  time 
rising  with  a  troubled  air,  he  walked  the  cabin 
for  some  moments  in  silence,  evincing  the 
while  no  slight  tokens  of  agitation.  At  last 
he  paused,  and  asked  more  coolly : 

"  You  think  I'm  changed  then,  Mr.  How 
ard.  Pray  how  am  I  altered?" 

"  To  an  ordinary  observer,"  said  his  com 
panion,  "  perhaps  not  at  all ;  but  to  me,  who 
have  observed  you  carefully  for  many  years, 
you  are  much  altered." 

"Indeed,  indeed,"  said  his  patron,  still 
walking  to  and  fro. 

"  Sir  Robert,  I  think  I  may  speak  without 
the  fear  of  offending  you.  You  know  me  too 
well,  I  believe,  to  suppose  I  have  any  sinister 
motives  in  doing  so ;  therefore,  I  will  even  ven 
ture  to  say  that  which  under  ordinary  circum 
stances  would  be  presuming  in  me." 

"  Speak  freely,  Mr.  Howard,  speak  freely, 
and  I  shall  only  feel  that  you  are  the  better 
and  truer  friend  to  me,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  confidence,  Sir  Rob 
ert,  and  I  will  endeavor  to  deserve  it." 

His  companion  had,  as  he  intimated,  watch 
ed  him  with  no  little  interest,  and  in  his 
shrewdness  and  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
he  had  suspected  the  true  state  of  Sir  Robert's 
feelings,  and  possessing  this  cue,  he  was  en 
abled  to  satisfy  himself  of  the  fact  beyond  a 
doubt,  as  to  his  patron's  being  jealous  and  un 
happy  in  relation  to  his  wife.  This  he  frank 
ly  told  him,  and  by  way  of  consolation, 
wrought  with  his  philosophy  upon  Sir  Robert, 
who  frankly  owned  the  truth.  This  confi 
dence  between  them  having  once  transpired, 
their  intimacy,  of  course,  became  redoubled, 
and  Mr.  Howard  gained  the  utmost  influence 
over  Sir  Robert,  who  submitted  with  all  confi 
dence  his  most  private  interests  to  the  super 
vision  and  direction  of  his  friend. 


CHAPTER    IV. 


THE   WRECK. 

Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  ere 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallowed. 


TEMPEST. 


THE  business  that  had  brought  Sir  Robert 
Brompton  to  India  became  more  intricate  in 
its  character  than  he  had  at  first  anticipated, 
and  he  found  soon  after  landing,  that  so  far 
from  being  able  to  return  by  the  same  ship  that 
had  brought  him  from  England,  he  might  find 
it  necessary  to  remain  abroad  even  a  year  or 
more,  and  finding  also  that  unless  he  did  so 
his  pecuniary  loss  would  be  immense,  he  wrote 
his  wife  the  circumstances  of  the  case  by  the 
returning  vessel,  and  assured  her  of  his  earliest 
possible  return. 

It  was  a  sickly  season  in  India,  and  Sir 
Robert  had  been  domesticated  there  but  a  few 
months  when  he  was  taken  very  ill  with  that 
fearful  scourge  the  small  pox,  ever  terrible,  but 
doubly  so  in  a  hot  climate.  His  sickness  was 
a  prolonged  one,  and  his  life  even,  at  one  time 
was  despaired  of.  But  Frederick  Howard 
proved  to  be  a^true  and  consistent  friend  to  his 
patron,  never  leaving  his  side  night  or  day, 
patiently  tending  and  waiting  upon  him  with 
ail  the  tenderness  of  a  woman,  until  at  last 
Sir  Robert  was  improving  and  finally  became 
comparatively  well.  Rarely  does  this  disease 
visit  any  one  in  hot  climates  without  leaving 
the  marks  of  its  ravages  upon  the  skin,  and  so 


it  was  with  Sir  Robert,  whose  face  was,  though 
not  seriously,  yet  considerably  disfigured  by  it. 

Knowing  as  much  as  the  reader  already 
does  of  Sir  Robert  Brompton 's  character  and 
general  disposition,  he  will  at  once  realize  that 
this  disfigurement,  though  in  reality  of  such 
trifling  import,  was  yet  to  him  additional  cause 
for  secret  unhappiness  as  it  regarded  his  per 
sonal  appearance.  If  he  before  had  been  an 
noyed  by  the  unfortunate  circumstance  of  his 
lameness,  he  was  thrice  as  much  disconcerted 
by  this  additional  and  equally  prominent 
blemish,  and  in  his  moodishness  and  misan 
thropic  spirit  he  counted  himself  as  absolutely 
horrible  and  repulsive  to  the  sight  of  those 
about  him.  If  his  wife  had  heretofore  con 
trasted  his  appearance  with  that  of  the  gay 
frequenters  of  her  drawing-rooms,  what  would 
she  do  now  ?  He  almost  shuddered  at  the 
contemplation  of  the  idea. 

Each  hour  he  seemed  to  grow  more  dejected, 
until  one  day,  a  proud  ship  came  into  port 
bearing  St.  George's  cross,  with  news  from 
England.  But  sad  news,  alas,  it  was  for  him. 
It  brought  him  letters  stating  that  his  wife  had 
been  suddenly  taken  with  a  fever  which  had 
proved  fatal,  and  she  was  dead. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


This  entirely  unexpected  vicissitude  chang 
ed  the  whole  current  of  Sir  Robert's  feelings. 
He  forgot  himself  in  his  sincere  sorrow  for  the 
departed,  his  deformities  which  he  had  magni 
fied  into  such  importance  were  no  longer 
thought  of.  Had  Sir  Robert  been  on  the 
most  perfect  terms  of  understanding  with  his 
wife,  he  could  not  have  mourned  her  loss  more 
sincerely,  and  for  a  long  period  his  grief  seem 
ed  completely  to  absorb  him.  Now  that  she 
was  gone  and  lost  to  him  forever,  he  solemnly 
believed  that  she  had  been  true  to  him,  beyond 
a  doubt,  and  in  his  heart  he  honestly  subscribed 
to  her  purity. 

Sir  Robert  was  right,  his  wife  was  pure  and 
true  to  him,  and  though  she  had  mingled 
freely  in  the  gay  world  of  London,  she  was 
unscathed  by  the  contest. 

"  Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade 
Death  «ame  with  timely  care " 

With  ample  and  special  directions  to  manage 
his  affairs  in  London,  Sir  Robert  despatched 
his  friend  Howard  to  England,  resolving  him 
self  to  stay  at  least  a  few  months  longer  in 
India,  until  the  poignancy  of  his  grief  was 
assuaged,  and  the  world  should  have  forgotten 
his  sorrow.  For  counting  its  sympathy  hol 
low  and  heartless,  he  could  not  patiently  have 
borne  to  meet  its  false  sympathy ;  he  preferred 
to  keep  his  grief  sacred,  and  sorrow  alone 
Within  his  own  heart. 

The  few  months  that  Sir  Robert  had  intend 
ed  to  remain  at  Calcutta  after  the  departure  of 
his  friend  were  swelled  into  some  four  years 
and  over,  before  he  made  up  his  mind  to  return 
to  England.  In  the  mean  time  his  agent,  the 
trust-worthy  Frederick  Howard,  had  regularly 
despatched  to  him  full  intelligence  of  the  mat 
ters  that  he  had  charge  of  in  London,  and 
thus  Sir  Robert  felt  no  anxiety  about  his  af 
fairs  at  home.  At  last,  however,  he  closed  up 
his  business  matters  in  India,  and  prepared  for 
a  homeward  bound  voyage. 

He  finally  embarked  in  the  good  ship 
Northumberland,  with  every  prospect  of  a 
quick  and  pleasant  voyage.  They  took  a  pilot 
on  board  to  bring  the  ship  through  the  sea  of 
Bengal  to  the  south'ard  of  Ceylon,  from 
whence  they  would  lay  their  course,  and  open 
the  Indian  ocean. 

It  is  a  lively  and  happy  time  on  board  when 
the  homeward-bound  ship  loosens  her  canvass 


and  moves  through  the  water.  Even  Sir 
Robert  entered  into  the  spirit  that  seemed  to 
pervade  every  soul  on  board,  and  noted  each 
order  and  preparation  that  arranged  the  large 
ship  for  the  voyage  with  marked  interest.  She 
was  a  picture  of  nautical  beauty,  with  every 
thing  set  that  would  draw — for  your  East  In- 
diaman  spreads  a  cloud  of  canvass  on  the 
long  voyage.  With  her  courses,  topsails, 
topgallants  and  royals,  she  bowled  along  at  a 
six  knot  rate  over  the  blue  waters  of  the  Indian 
Bay.  Even  her  becket  main  sky-sail  was 
filled  to  the  wind  on  her  courses,  a  graceful 
tiny  sky  scraper  that  furls  neatly,  when  need 
be,  with  the  main  royal. 

They  had  scarcely  doubled  the  southern 
coast  of  Ceylon  and  prepared  to  land  the  pilot, 
when  a  fierce  squall  came  leaping  over  the 
sea,  and  whirling  in  the  air  with  a  fury  that 
made  the  oldest  seaman  on  board  the  Northum 
berland  look  toward  the  quarter  deck  for  or 
ders  to  meet  the  emergency.  The  pilot's 
quick  eye  saw  it  at  once,  and  he  leaped  back 
to  the  station  which  he  was  just  about  to  leave 
as  commander  of  the  ship,  for  the  time  being. 
With  a  quick  perception  of  the  danger  and 
the  means  to  prevent  it,  he  issued  his  orders 
at  once  with  the  coolness  and  rapidity,  so  re 
quisite  at  times  on  the  ocean,  and  which  show 
ed  him  master  of  his  noble  profession. 

^    "  The  water  darkens,  and  the  rustling  sound 
Tells  of  the  coming  squall." 

"  All  hands  shorten  sail,"  shouted  the  pilot 
from  the  quarter  deck. 

The  crew  of  a  well  regulated  ship  are  all 
trained  to  know  their  stations,  and  when  an 
order  is  issued,  there  is  no  jostling  or  indeci 
sion — each  man  knows  his  duty. 

"  Lay  aft  here,  and  brail  up  the  spanker. 
Lay  aloft  and  furl." 

Already  "  ay,  ay,  sir,"  was  responded  to 
each  order  by  those  who  sprung  to  fulfil  it. 

"  Bear  a  hand  forward  there,  down  with  the 
flying  jib  and  stow  it,  some  of  ye  run  up  and 
help  hand  the  topgallant  sails." 

"  Keep  the  ship  oflf  a  bit, — steady — so." 

"  Steady,  it  is,  sir,"  said  the  attentive  helms 
man,  as  he  fell  off  his  course  a  couple  of  points 
to  give  the  men  aloft  a  chance  to  work  to  bet 
ter  advantage. 

These  and  other  orders  followed  each  other 
in  quick  succession,  and  were  obeyed  with  that 


24 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


alacrity  and  promptness  that  characterizes  all 
manoeuvres  at  sea.  The  ship  though  greatly 
relieved  by  the  spread  of  canvass  that  had 
been  taken  in,  yet  reached  through  the  water 
like  a  race  horse,  while  the  squall  seemed  to  be 
ripening  into  a  gale.  The  black  clouds  were 
driving  on  in  thick  array,  and  big  drops  of  rain 
mingled  with  the  gusts  of  wind,  until  at  last  it 
poured  in  torrents  from  the  sky.  Though 
near  mid-day,  yet  it  became  almost  as  dark  as 
night,  and  the  seamen  put  on  their  storm 
clothes  with  ominous  looks  at  these  startling 
signs  of  the  weather,  which  foreboded  hard 
work  for  them. 

Seeing  he  promptness  and  ability  of  the 
pilot,  the  captain  of  the  Northumberland 
had  at  the  commencement  of  the  squall  sprung 
into  the  waist  of  the  ship  and  borne  a  hand 
with  he  rest  of  the  crew  in  obeying  the  or 
ders  that  were  issued.  There  being  now  a 
pause,  he  came  aft  again. 

"  She  staggers  under  it,  Mr.  Pilot,"  he  said, 
looking  at  the  canvass  that  the  ship  still  spread 
to  the  storm,  and  observing  the  way  in  which 
she  plunged  into  the  sea. 

"  True,  she  does  strain  a  little,"  said  the 
pilot,  with  a  quick  eye  directed  about  the  ship. 

"  Hadn't  we  better  get  in  the  mainsail  ?" 
suggested  the  captain. 

"  Not  yet,  we  must  weather  these  points 
before  it  will  do  to  take  in  any  more,"  said  the 
officer,  as  he  instructed  the  man  at  the  helm 
to  steer  "  small."  . 

"  Nothing  off,  sir,  nothing  off,"  repeated  the 
pilot  sternly,  to  the  man  at  the  helm. 

Already  the  sea  was  blown  and  tossed  into 
a  perfect  fury,  and  run  tremendously  high,  and 
having  gained  the  desired  point,  the  order  was 
at  last  given  by  the  pilot. 

"  Stand  by  to  take  in  the  mainsail,  ease  off 
the  sheet,  up  with  it,  lively — so — belay  that, 
ease  away  the  tacks,  so — well — furl." 

Following  these  orders,  the  huge  sheet  of 
canvass  was  soon  strongly  lashed  in  place. 

"  Stand  by  to  reef  topsails.  Close  reef  top 
sails.  Haul  down  the  jib." 

"  Mr.  Mate,"  said  the  pilot  to  a  smart,  intel 
ligent  sailor  who  filled  that  post. 

"  Ay,  ay,   sir,"   responded  the  mate. 

"  Now  hoist  the  foretopmast  staysail,  that's 
it,  cheerily,  cheerily,  boys,  with  a  will  there," 
said  the  pilot,  in  encouraging  tones. 

"  In   with  your  foretopsail." 


To  one  not  acquainted  with  the  gear  of  a 
ship,  it  may  be  well  to  say  that  the  sail  which 
the  pilot  had  just  ordered  set,  was  a  sort  of 
storm  sail,  and  having  got  the  ship  in  hand,  he 
found  her,  although  laboring  hard,  yet  safe. 
In  this  gear  they  run  for  some  hours  to  the 
south 'ard,  at  a  speed  that  placed  all  calculation 
at  fault.  The  sea  all  the  while  increasing  in 
violence  until  at  last  a  heavy  wave  combed 
over  the  taffrail,  half  engulfing  the  helmsman, 
and  causing  him  to  let  the  ship  yaw  off  proudly, 
as  seamen  say.  The  heft  of  the  sea, 
however,  passed  under  the  ship  as  she  lifted 
like  a  sea  bird  upon  its  swell. 

"  Where  are  you  carrying  the  ship  to  ?" 
shouted  the  pilot,  abruptly.  "  What  are  you 
about  ?  Don't  you  see  your  wake  broad  off 
the  lee  beam !" 

The  helmsman,  who  was  really  a  good  sailor, 
was  disconcerted,  and  shoved  the  helm  hard 
down  at  once  to  recover  his  course,  which 
caused  the  ship  to  broach  to,  with  such  force 
and  rapidity  that  it  seemed  utterly  impossible 
to  meet  her  with  the  helm  in  time. 

"  Meet  her !"  shouted  the  pilot  from  the 
weather  main  rigging. 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  said  the  man,  struggling  at 
his  post  of  duty. 

"  Meet  her,  I  say  !"  again  shouted  the  pilot, 
angrily,  leaping  upon  the  deck  and  rushing 
aft  to  enforce  his  order:  for  to  his  experienced 
eye  all  depended  upon  this  movement. 

Seizing  the  helm,  he  endeavored  to  remedy 
the  trouble  by  his  own  skill. 

But  it  was  too  late.  The  ship  came  grace 
fully  up  in  the  wind,  and  in  the  next  moment 
was  taken  aback,  losing  her  steerage  way, 
and  was  thrown  at  once  on  her  beam  ends. 
Every  one  rushed  to  secure  a  hold  upon  some 
object  that  might  seem  to  give  even  temporary 
support,  and  all  discipline  seemed  lost.  The 
captain  and  some  of  the  crew  were  already 
missing  and  were  doubtless  drowned.  It  was 
a  trying  time,  such  as  proves  a  man,  and  such 
an  one  as  few  men  are  equal  to.  The  pilot  of 
the  Northumberland  was  quite  a  young  man 
to  fill  such  a  station,  but  he  proved  himself 
fully  equal  to  the  task. 

"  Steady,  for  your  lives !"  he  shouted  to  a 

small  knot   of  seamen  nearest  to  him,   in  a 

voice  that  was  distinctly  heard  above  the  din 

of  the  rushing  waters  and  howling  storm. 

The  men,  accustomed  to  strict  discipline,  and 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


25 


to  obey  the  voice  of  authority,  stood  firm,  and 
watched  their  young  commander  like  those 
who  felt  the  power  of  a  directing  mind. 

"  Forward  there  with  your  hatchets ! 
Promptly,  men,  it's  no  time  for  play  now ! 
Cut  way  the  foremast,  lee  lanyards  first,  well 
— now  the  weather." 

A  few  strokes  of  the  axe,  and  the  mast 
snapped  off  like  a  pipe-stem  and  went  by  the 
board,  for  the  strain  upon  it  was  immense. 
The  head  stays  were  cut  loose  from  the  bow 
sprit,  and  the  ship  drifted  free  from  the  wreck, 
while  the  pilot  paused  for  a  moment  to  see  • 
what  effect  this  movement  would  have  upon 
the  hull  of  the  Northumberland.  It  was  only 
for  a  moment,  when  he  cried  : 

"  Hurra !  She  lifts  a  bit.  Lay  aft  here, 
and  cut  away  the  mizzen." 

This  order  was  obeyed  in  a  like  manner 
with  that  which  had  removed  the  foremast.  As 
the  dismembered  spar  cleared  itself,  it  also 
dragged  the  main  topmast  off  the  cap,  and 
thus  relieved,  the  ship  slowly  righted,  but  not 
without  having  shipped  a  large  quantity  of 
water. 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  Northumberland 
had  still  her  mainmast  standing,  and  of  course 
with  it  the  main  spencer ;  a  sail  which  brails 
to  the  mast  itself.  Consequently  those  in 
command  of  the  ship  had  only  to  haul  aft  the 
main  spencer  sheet,  and  put  the  helm  down, 
although  she  was  a  third  full  of  water  and  a 
partial  wreck,  to  lay  her  to,  snugly,  even  in  a 
hard  gale,  and  this  was  at  once  done. 

All  through  the  series  of  catastrophes 
that  beset  the  noble  ship,  Sir  Robert  Brompton 
had  been  as  calm  as  it  was  possible  for  any 
one  to  be  under  such  circumstances.  He  was 
too  much  of  a  philosopher  to  fear  death,  nor 
had  life  such  strong  ties  with  him  as  to  make 
him  tremble  at  the  thought  of  leaving  it.  He 
had  found  time  more  than  once  during  the 
struggle  of  the  elements,  to  admire  the  self- 
possession  of  the  young  pilot,  who  seemed  to 
be  equal  to  any  emergency,  and  to  rise  in 
ability  and  skill  in  a  ratio  with  the  increase 
of  danger,  and  the  demand  upon  him  for  the 
exercise  of  these  qualities.  To  look  upon,  he 
was  scarcely  more  than  a  boy,  and  yet  he  had 
held  the  ship  in  complete  control  during  the 
whole  period  of  her  danger,  as  far  as  any  hu 
man  being  might  do  so,  and  had,  as  we  have 
seen,  rescued  her  from  a  most  perilous  and 


The  men  were  impressed  with  the  utmost 
confidence  in  the  young  officer,  for  no  one 
knows  quicker  than  your  foremast  hand, 
whether  the  ship  is  handled  in  a  masterly 
manner,  and  if  this  is  the  case,  admiration 
and  respect  are  both  the  result,  in  Jack's  hon 
est  heart.  The  pilot  ordered  some  refresh 
ments  dealt  out  to  the  crew,  with  a  small  ra 
tion  of  spirit  to  each  man,  for  they  had  tasted 
neither  food  nor  drink  for  many  long  hours, 
and  they  partook  of  both  like  famished  men. 
These  refreshments  came  from  the  cabin 
stores,  and  were  better  than  the  fare  they  were 
accustomed  to  in  the  forecastle,  which  gave  it 
additional  zest,  and  also  pleased  the  men  as  a 
mark  of  consideration  and  kindness  from  those 
above  them. 

The  brief  meal  was  hurriedly  partaken  of 
when  the  order  came  from  the  pilot : 

"  Stand  by,  to  man  the  pumps. 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,"  shouted  a  dozen  willing 
voices ;  and  there  is  a  charm  in  the  prompt 
ness  with  which  a  mariner  responds,  both  in 
word  and  action,  to  the  orders  at  sea. 

"  Clap  on  there  in  earnest,"  said  the  pilot 
pleasantly  to  the  men — "  we've  water  enough 
along  side,  and  can't  afford  it  stowage  on 
board.  In  earnest,  men,  in  earnest !" 

Thus  encouraged  and  directed,  the  men  ap 
plied  themselves  with  vigor  to  the  work,  and 
burst  forth  in  the  long  drawling  "ye-ho-boys," 
such  as  they  sing  when  the  windlass  is  man 
ned,  and  the  ponderous  anchor  is  hove  up 
preparatory  to  the  long  voyage. 

"  You  have  these  men  in  complete  control," 
remarked  Sir  Robert  to  the  young  officer,  as 
he  stood  on  the  quarter  deck  issuing  his  or 
ders. 

"  O  yes,  sir.  In  our  profession  men  will 
always  follow  your  lead,  if  it  is  ship-shape." 

"  You  seem  very  young,  sir,  for  the  respon 
sible  station  you  hold." 

"The  greater  part  of  my  life  has  been 
passed  upon  the  water,"  replied  the  pilot. 

"  And  to  good  purpose,  too,"  said  Sir  Rob 
ert,  "for  you  certainly  possess  every  requisite 
of  coolness  and  prompt  judgment." 

Every  now  and  then  the  pilot  bore  a  hand 
at  the  pumps  with  the  rest,  though  his  atten 
tion  was  required  frequently  at  the  other  part 
of  the  ship,  but  he  constantly  incited  the 
men  with  those  prompt  and  cheerful  orders 
that  sound  so  well  from  the  lips  of  those  in 
command  on  the  ocean. 


26 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


Sir  Robert  laid  his  hands  stoutly  to  the 
pumps,  and  with  his  extraordinary  strength 
was  of  no  small  service  as  it  regarded  clearing 
the  ship  of  water.  The  unremitting  efforts 
of  all  hands  at  last  cleared  the  ship,  and  she 
was  found  on  examination  to  be  tight,  though 
severely  strained  in  her  timbers. 

Though  the  wind  had  somewhat  subsided, 
yet  it  still  blew  very  fresh,  besides  which  it 
was  dead  ahead  for  those  in  the  ship,  and 
thus  prevented  their  laying  their  course  back 
to  port  again.  They  supposed  themselves  to 
be  in  the  track  of  homeward  bound  European  . 
vessels,  and  therefore  resolved  to  run  free 
awhile,  until  the  weather  should  be  such  as  to 
enable  them  to  discover  their  latitude.  But 
in  the  me-m  time,  though  with  the  ship's  head 
to  the  west,  still  the  Northumberland  drifted 
with  great  speed  to  the  south,  and  although 
they  perceived  this,  yet  it  was  beyond  their 
power  to  a^.'itl  it,  since  they  had  not  even  the 
ordinary  means  to  withstand  the  contrary 
wind,  to  say  nothing  of  the  set  of  the  current. 

"  How  think  you  this  will  end  ?"  asked  Sir 
Robert,  of  the  pilot,  one  day. 

"  Heaven  only  knows,  sir,  skill  can  effect 
nothing  in  mir  case." 

"  The  current  seems  to  set  us  still  to  the 
south,  with  much  rapidity." 

"  It  does,  I  have  noticed  it  these  two  days 
past  as  stronger  than  ever." 

"  As  it  changes  our  position,  it  may  prove  a 
blessing  after  all,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

"Possibly,  but  I  fear  it  only  gets  us  hourly 
from  the  truck  of  vessels." 

"  We  mu*t  hope  for  the  best,  and  let  time 
decide  our  fate,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

The  crew  of  the  ship  had  lost  one  half  their 
number,  including  the  captain,  in  the  height 
of  the  gale.  But  they  were  cheerful  and  in 
good  discipline  still,  and  kept  up  their  spirits 
bravely,  notwithstanding  that  the  stout  ship, 
though  with  one  good  sail  upon  her,  was  still 
but  little  better  than  a  log  upon  the  water. 

The  simplest  comprehension  on  board  the 
wreck  of  the  Northumberland  could  easily 
understand  the  peril  of  their  situation,  for  al 
lowing  that  they  were  so  fortunate  as  to  escape 
a  gale,  and  thus  be  engulfed,  still  each  passing 
hour  brought  them  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
end  of  their  supply  of  provisions',  which  were 
dealt  out  only  on  short  allowance  at  this  time, 
in  sad  anticipation  of  the  period  when  the  las* 


ration  would  be  upon  the  m?ss  table,  and 
famine  stare  them  boldly  in  the  face.  One  or 
two  moderate  rains  had  fortunately  supplied 
them  with  fresh  water,  which  was  also  care 
fully  caught  and  preserved,  for  experience 
teaches  the  sailor  the  true  value  of  water.  In 
short,  everything  that  experience  and  care 
could  do  to  avert  their  final  sufferings  was 
promptly  performed  by  the  pilot's  orders,  who 
seemed  to  be  peculiarly  fitted  to  meet  the 
present  emergency. 

Sometimes  for  days  together  they  would  be 
totally  becalmed,  and  while  Sir  Robert  and  the 
pilot  became  better  acquainted  in  the  cabin, 
the  seamen  forward  whiled  away  the  time  with 
forecastle  yarns. 

It  is  a  natural  propensity  that  seems  to  at 
tach  itself  to  a  seaman  to  spin  a  yarn,  or  lis 
ten  to  one,  at  every  leisure  moment ;  he  takes 
as  naturally  to  story-telling  as  a  fish  does  to 
water.  The  heel  of  the  bowsprit,  and  the  im 
mediate  vicinity  of  the  forecastle  is  sacred 
ground  to  him,  his  memory  associates  all  of  ro 
mance  that  he  has  ever  heard  with  this  spot, 
and  as  a  component  part  of  the  ship,  it  is 
scarcely  less  honored  than  the  sacred  precincts 
of  the  quarter  deck  itself.  The  one,  stern  dis 
cipline  has  taught  him  to  respect,  but  the  other 
he  loves  for  the  memories  that  he  associates 
with  it,  and  the  yarns  he  has  listened  to  there, 
during  the  long  watches  in  the  tropics,  or  in 
the  lull  of  the  storm. 

Your  old  sea  dog  who  has  been  many  a  long 
voyage,  and  whose  exterior  presents  a  rough 
and  storm-beaten  appearance,  to  look  upon, 
would  seem  to  be  the  very  opposite  of  any 
thing  like  sensibility,  and  to  have  as  little  ten 
derness  or  delicacy  of  feeling  in  his  composi 
tion  as  the  ship's  rudder  itself;  but  many  a 
tear  has  that  old  salt  shed  in  his  night  watch 
while  he  listened  to  the  characteristic  story  of 
some  messmate.  Beneath  that  blue  jacket 
beats  a  Christian  heart,  often-times  more  Chris 
tian  than  your  landsman,  whose  every-day 
contact  with  the  selfish  and  overreaching 
about  him,  hardens  his  nature,  and  blunts  the 
sensibility  of  his  heart. 

The  world  on  shore  grows  selfish  and  pinch 
ing  in  their  dispositions,  but  who  ever  saw  a 
real  Jack  tar  who  was  not  generous  to  a  fault  ? 
Ready  to  share  his  last  dollar  with  his  mess 
mate,  or  to  freely  spend  for  others,  the  money 
which  he  has  labored  so  hard  and  risked  so 
much  to  obt;iin. 


CHAPTER    V. 


THE    SOLITARY    ISLAND. 


0,  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own, 
In  the  blue  summer  ocean  far  off  and  alone ! 


MOORE. 


DAYS,  nay,  weeks  had  passed  on,  and  the 
wrecked  vessel,  still  driven  by  the  currents  and 
the  wind,  was  now  fairly  lost  in  the  boundless 
extent  of  the  southern  ocean,  and  as  all  on 
board  were  but  too  well  aware,  far  away  from 
the  track  of  all  known  commerce. 

The  people  on  board  the  Northumberland 
began  to  despair  of  ever  again  reaching  their 
home,  for  the  ship  would  hardly  steer  at  all  by 
what  convass  they  could  spread  upon  her. 
True,  she  might  at  times  be  said  to  have 
steerage  way,  but  this  was  so ,  doubtfully 
contested  with  the  winds  and  currents 
that  beset  her,  that  it  afforded  no  degree  of 
hope.  A  shade  of  despair  pervaded  the  coun 
tenances  now  of  even  the  boldest ;  some  pre 
tended  to  laugh  away  their  fears  and  the  ap 
prehensions  that  others  freely  indulged  in,  but 
when  they  thought  themselves  unobserved, 
they  showed  by  their  countenances  that  the 
lamp  of  hope,  if  burning  at  all  within  their 
hearts,  was  but  dim  indeed.  Still  there  was 
no  repining,  no  grumbling,  all  seemed  to  be 
patiently  awaiting  for  the  next  gale  to  come, 
which  would  beyond  a  doubt  sweep  the  ship 
and  all  hands  into  eternity.  But  they  could 
not  read  the  future. 


It  was  a  mild  night  on  the  sea  ;  the  waters 
had  changed  colors  with  the  heavens,  the  deep 
blue  was  now  above,  lit  up  by  millions  of  stars, 
the  silvery  fleece  of  the  noon-day  sky  was 
on  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  those  on  board 
of  the  Northumberland  seemed  to  be  floating 
upon  one  boundless  molten  sea  of  silver. 
The  moon  shone  almost  too  brightly,  we  mean 
too  brightly  for  the  loneliness  of  heart  that 
pervaded  the  wreck,  and  you  might  trace  the 
moon's  wake  upon  the  sea,  by  a  deepened 
glowing  column  into  a  distance  that  would 
make  the  eye  ache,  and  the  brain  to  tire. 
Some  leaned  listlessly  over  the  bulwarks  and 
gazed  into  the  deep,  others  slept  beneath  the 
broad  canopy  of  heaven ;  here  were  a  knot 
gathered  of  some  five  or  six  who  were  spinning 
yarns  of  their  former  adventures  and  of  stories 
that  they  had  picked  up  in  their  roving  profes 
sion,  until  at  last  all  save  a  single  officer  and 
the  man  at  the  helm,  were  asleep. 

The  officer  was  walking  the  quarter  deck 
thoughtfully,  pausing  now  and  then  to  study 
the  strange  and  lonely  picture  that  surrounded 
him,  now  upon  the  sea  and  now  among  the 
sleepers,  who  perhaps  were  happy  in  their 
dreams,  and  in  fancy  once  more  beholding 


23 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


that  land  which  in  their  waking  moments  they 
had  so  fervently  and  constantly  prayed  for. 
Once  the  officer  walked  forward  among  the 
slumbering  crew  with  a  noiseless  step,  and 
paused,  to  study  the  expressions  of  those 
bronzed  faces  beneath  the  broad  moon  light, 
but  with  half  a  smile  and  half  a  sigh,  he 
walked  aft  again  to  the  quarter  deck. 

It  was  the  morning  watch,  for  the  strictest 
discipline  was  still  enforced  on  board  of  the 
Northumberland ;  the  pilot  and  Sir  Eobert, 
who  were  the  directing  minds  there,  knowing 
full  well  that  this  was  the  only  means  to 
preserve  contentment  and  ensure  even  the 
possibility  of  their  eventual  rescue  and  safe 
ty.  Had  each  one  of  the  motley  crew  been 
permitted  to  use  his  own  discretion  or  fancy, 
in  the  sad  state  they  were  in,  the  wreck  would 
have  become  a  second  Babel,  and  riot  and 
debauch  would  soon  have  defeated  every  well 
digested  hope,  for  the  improvement  of  any 
chance  advantage  that  fortune  might  cast  in 
their  way. 

As  the  break  of  day  gradually  lighted  up 
the  eastern  horizon  and  cast  its  wakening  light 
over  the  expanse  of  waters,  it  discovered  the 
officer  of  the  deck  to  be  the  young  pilot  whose 
master  spirit  had  coped  so  skillfully  with  the 
raging  tempest.  With  the  growing  light  he 
carefully  scanned  the  horizon  with  his  glass 
until  he  seemed  to  rivet  it  at  last  upon  one 
spot,  and  to  regard  that  with  the  utmost  care. 
He  was  too  thorough  a  seaman  to  give  a  false 
alarm,  but  approaching  the  helmsman  he  said 
quietly : 

"  Jack." 

V  Ay,  ay,  sir." 

"  Take  a  look  through  the  glass  hereaway, 
a  point  or  so  off  the  larboard  bow." 

The  man,  depositing  his  cap  upon  the  deck 
as  a  mark  of  respect,  while  the  pilot  took  the 
helm,  fixed  the  glass  upon  the  desired  point, 
and  gazed  for  more  than  a  minute  without 
speaking.  Then  turning  to  his  officer,  he 
looked  him  in  the  face  without  a  word,  but  a 
big  tear  rolled  down  either  of  his  rough  sun 
burnt  cheeks.  Manly  tears  of  joy,  the  outpour 
ing  of  a  longing  spirit ! 

"Well,  Jack,  what  do  you  see?"  asked  the 
pilot,  who  was  resolved  to  satisfy  himsp'f  oy 
other  eyes  than  his  own,  before  he  gave  full 
credence  to  his  supposition. 


"  Land,  sir !"  replied  the  man,  with  a 
quivering  lip ! 

"  Isn't  it  the  blowing  of  a  whale,  or  the 
back  of  a  big  fish,  Jack  ?" 

"No,  your  honor,"  said  the  helmsman, 
drawing  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  eyes, 
"nothing  but  land  could  loom  up  after  that 
fashion." 

Leaping  into  the  main-shrouds,  the  pilot  as 
cended  to  the  head  of  the  main-mast,  and 
once  more  carefully  studied  the  point  which 
had  engaged  his  attention.  He  awaited  for  a 
few  moments  the  more  complete  break  of  day, 
and  then  descended  to  the  deck  with  a  spirit 
that  he  had  not  before  evinced  for  many  a 
long  day.  Already  many  of  the  crew  were 
awake,  and  observing  the  change  in  their 
commander's  manner,  were  on  the  alert  at 
once,  nor  had  all  fairly  aroused,  when  his 
clear,  manly  voice  shouted : 

"Lay  aft  here,  and  ease  away  the  main 
spencer  sheet." 

This  order  told  the  story  at  once  to  every 
one,  and  being  followed  by  another  to  the 
helmsman  to  fall  off  a  couple  of  points  from 
his  course,  a;l  knew  that  they  were  standing 
for  some  object  ahead.  The  crew  were  look 
ing  out  now  from  the  bows,  and  soon  after 
sunrise  discovered  with  the  naked  eye, 

"  Fluttering  between  the  dun  wave  and  the  sky," 

the  green  hills  and  soft  foliage  of  a  low  tropi 
cal  island.  To  their  longing  eyes  and  anxious 
hearts,  it  seemed  the  fairy-like  shape  of  Para 
dise  itself.  They  became  almost  intoxicated 
with  delight,  and  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  on 
board  the  wreck  as  they  were  borne  on  by  the 
breeze,  and  let  go  their  anchor  in  a  snug  but 
deep  bay  that  seemed  opening  its  arms  to  re 
ceive  them.  It  was  scooped  out  by  nature  for 
the  very  purpose  of  a  safe  harbor,  sheltered 
on  all  sides  from  the  wind,  by  gently  sloping 
and  green-clad  hills. 

"  1  have  read  of  such  spots  as  this  in  fairy 
tales,"  said  Sir  Robert  to  the  pilot,  as  both 
stood  gazing  almost  entranced  at  this  lovely 
gem  of  the  ocean. 

"  Any  land  would  look  incomparably  beauti 
ful  to  us  now,"  said  the  pilot. 

"  What  an  abundance  of  vegetation  and  of 
animals  too,"  said  Sir  Robert,  observing  a 
herd  of  goats  on  a  sloping  hill-side  not  far 
inland. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


29 


"  But  there  are  no  trees  of  any  size  that  I 
can  see,"  said  the  pilot,  whose  practised  eye 
was  looking  for  the  means  of  supplying  the 
Northumberland  once  more  with  masts  and 
spars. 

"  How  are  we  to  get  ashore  ?"  asked  Sir 
Kobert ;  "  there's  not  a  boat  left  us." 

"  Look  over  the  side,  Sir  Robert,  I've  set 
the  boys  to  work  already." 

"  O,  a  raft,"  said  his  companion,  observing 
the  spirit  of  alacrity  with  which  half  a  dozen 
men  were  placing  together  pieces  of  timber 
lowered  to  them  by  others  from  the  deck. 

Upon  this  hastily  formed,  yet  secure  convey 
ance,  Sir  Robert,  the  pilot,  and  all  of  the  crew 
save  three,  who  were  left  with  arms  and  am 
munition  to  prevent  a  surprise  should  the 
ship  be  visited  by  natives,  went  on  shore,  in 
the  first  place  to  obtain  some  fresh  provisions, 
and  in  the  next  to  explore  the  island,  and  see 
what  resources  it  afforded  that  might  be  turn 
ed  to  advantage  in  their  peculiar  situation. 

A  very  brief  survey  was  sufficient  to  dis 
cover  to  Sir  Robert  and  the  pilot  that  the 
island  which  they  had  thus  providentially 
been  thrown  upon,  was  uninhabited  by  human 
beings,  and  that  it  had  probably  never  before 
been  visited  by  the  foot  of  man.  Notwith 
standing  there  were  a  great  profusion  of  ani 
mals,  such  as  goats,  hares,  and  a  small  kind 
of  deer  like  a  gazelle.  There  were  many  kinds 
of  birds  too,  indigenous  to  the  tropics,  with 
an  innumerable  variety  of  ducks  and  water 
fowls,  generally  so  tame  and  fearless  that  the 
sailors  easily  secured  them  with  their  hands 
alone,  Turtles  and  tortoises  abounded  on  the 
shore,  and  were  looked  upon  with  longing 
eyes  by  the  men,  who  promised  themselves 
most  luxurious  feasting. 

The  fruits  seemed  to  grow  in  the  most  rank 
abundance  and  richness,  and  the  men  partook 
freely  of  plantains,  bananas,  cocoanuts,  and 
the  bread  fruit,  with  many  others,  racy  and 
most  grateful  to  their  palates,  for  which  how 
ever  they  knew  no  name.  From  a  rocky  shelf  on 
a  hill  side  that  overlooked  the  little  harbor,  a 
cool,  limpid  spring  bubbled  forth  from  the 
cleft  of  the  rock,  tumbling  into  a  natural  basin, 
where  the  deer  and  goats  came  to  drink.  The 
first  effort  of  the  crew  was  to  reach  this  water 
and  slake  their  thirst,  and  refresh  their  bo 
dies  by  bathing  in  it.  Few  know  how  to 
value  the  blessing  of  pure  fresh  water  who 


have  not  suffered  for  the  want  of  it  at  sea. 
With  this  luxury  among  the  rest,  the  crew  of 
the  Northumberland,  after  drifting  about  the 
ocean  for  nearly  four  months,  living  upon  salt 
provisions  alone,  now  feasted  like  princes  upon 
the  fat  of  the  land. 

The  raft  served  them  in  their  impatience 
very  well  for  the  time  being,  and  also  after 
wards  for  the  transportation  of  heavy  materi 
als,  but  the  carpenter  was  at  once  set  to  work 
to  build  a  commodious  and  safe  boat  for  the 
use  of  all.  This  was  no  trifling  matter  in  a 
spot  where  the  material  must  be  got  out  of  old 
stock  taken  from  the  ship,  and  it  was  weeks 
even  before  the  people  of  the  ship  could  make 
the  passage  to  the  shore  save  upon  the  large 
and  cumbersome  raft  that  had  at  first  been 
constructed.  But  under  the  guidance  of  Sir 
Robert  and  the  pilot,  matters  went  on  very 
smoothly,  and  everything  was  done  with  a 
purpose,  and  an  eye  to  the  husbanding  of  such 
articles  as,  once  consumed,  it  would  be  impos 
sible  for  them  again  to  supply.  For  this  rea 
son  sea  biscuit  became  a  prohibited  article, 
and  flour  was  not  allowed  to  be  used  on  any 
consideration,  except  in  the  smallest  possible 
quantity  in  cooking ;  it  was  an  article  that 
would  keep  at  sea,  and  they  foresaw  in  their 
providence  a  use  for  it  when  vegetables  might 
not  be  had. 

Tents  were  raised  upon  the  island  with  the 
ship's  spare  canvass-  in  well  sheltered  and  se 
cure  places,  and  the  provisions  which  had  be 
come  wet  by  exposure  during  the  storm  they 
had  experienced,  were  brought  on  shore  and 
carefully  dried,  and  preserved  in  a  snug  cellar 
prepared  for  their  reception.  By  degrees  the 
ship  itself  was  taken  to  pieces  and  brought 
to  the  shore,  timber  after  timber,  and 
piece  by  piece,  for  she  was  of  no  use  to 
them  as  she  then  was,  where  wood  could  not 
be  obtained  to  put  masts  into  her ;  and  besides 
it  was  discovered  that  she  was  strained  below 
the  water  lines  beyond  their  power  to  repair. 

The  idea  of  building  a  small  vessel  from 
her  material  had  struck  the  minds  of  the  pilot 
and  Sir  Robert  at  the  outset,  and  thus  every 
spar,  plank  and  bolt  were  carefully  preserved 
and  carried  on  shore,  until  the  good  ship 
Northumberland  had  entirely  disappeared. 
She  had  of  course  ample  spare  articles  in  the 
way  of  ship  chandlery  to  fit  up  a  smaller  ves 
sel  indifferently  well,  and  these  with  the  arti- 


30 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


cles  in  use  on  board,  formed  a  very  complete 
assortment  of  stores  to  draw  upon.  All  ves 
sels  of  the  long  voyage  carry  ample  ship's 
stores  in  the  matter  of  sails,  cordage  and  the 
like  to  guard  against  unforeseen  accidents. 

The  Northumberland  having,  after  nearly 
three  months,  been  thus  brought  piece  by  piece 
safely  on  shore,  it  was  proposed  to  give  the 
crew  a  few  days  for  rest  and  recreation,  a  plan 
that  Sir  Robert  and  the  pilot  proposed,  as 
they  thought  it  would  have  a  good  effect  upon 
the  spirits  of  the  men,  who  had  really  worked 
very  hard  since  the  day  on  which  they  anchor 
ed  in  the  little  land-locked  bay  of  the  lone 
island.  And  now  they  were  to  commence 
upon  a  fresh  task,  which,  even  with  the  utmost 
application,  would  require  some  four  months 
to  complete. 

After  all  proper  arrangements  had  been  con 
summated,  the  keel  of  a  sloop,  designed  to  be 
of  some  two  hundred  tons  burthen,  was  laid  in 
due  form,  and  all  save  four  of  the  crew  went 
earnestly  to  work  upon  it,  under  the  guidance 
of  the  pilot  and  the  carpenter  of  the  Northum 
berland.  The  latter  individual  happening  to 
be  a  man  who  thoroughly  understood  his  busi 
ness,  became  a  personage  of  no  small  import 
ance  to  the  interests  of  all  concerned. 

Some  of  the  crew  in  the  mean  time  were 
employed  under  the  direction  of  Sir  Robert, 
in  securing  and  preparing  provisions  for  the 
rest  ?  nor  was  this  a  slight  task,  since  provid 
ing  for  the  immediate  consumption  was  but  a 
part  of  it.  Many  days  were  passed  in  secur 
ing  and  curing  deer's  tongues  and  quarters, 
and  in  collecting  some  of  the  best  turtle  to  be 
put  on  shipboard,  with  other  prepared  food  for 
the  voyage  home.  Sir  Robert  himself  was 
most  industrious  in  taming  and  fattening 
numerous  fowls  of  difTerent  species,  to  be  kept 
alive  in  coops  on  board  the  proposed  vessel,  to 
supply  them  v\ith  that  rarity  at  sea,  fresh  pro 
visions.  And  thus  all  went  prosperously  on, 
and  each  man  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost  to 
perform  his  duty  and  to  push  matters  ahead. 

In  the  mean  time,  Sir  Robert  and  the  pilot 
found  the  island  which  they  had  thus  by 
chance  discovered,  to  be  some  nine  miles  in 
circumferenc-%  and  as  pretty  a  spot  as  ever 
smiled  be.itath  a  tropical  sun.  It  was  not 
only  profuse  in  vegetation  and  in  the  rarest 
and  sweetest  of  wild  flowers,  but  its  almost 
boundless  supply  of  fres  provisions  was  of  in 


calculable  importance  to  Sir  Robert  and  his 
party.  Though  they  were  amply  supplied 
with  fire  arms,  yet  a  gun  had  not  been  dis 
charged  since  they  landed  on  the  island,  for 
there  was  neither  animal  nor  bird  there  that 
might  not  be  secured  with  the  utmost  ease, 
and  slaughtered  at  will  with  the  knife.  Some 
half  dozen  goats  were  so  easily  tamed  that 
they  were  petted  and  kept  about  the  immedi 
ate  vicinity  of  the  camp,  and  taught  to  afford 
their  milk  for  the  use  of  the  officers  and  crew 
of  the  Northumberland,  so  that  with  their  am 
ple  supply  of  coffee,  their  comfort  was  greatly 
enhanced  as  it  regarded  the  matter  of  the 
palate. 

"It  wants  but  one  blessing  to  make  this 
island  a  perfect  paradise,"  said  the  pilot. 

"  And  that  is — " 

"  The  society  of  woman,  Sir  Robert ;  with 
a  loved  companion,  I  could  dwell  here  for 
ever." 

"  You  are  romantic,  Mr.  Pilot,"  said  Sir 
Robert,  smiling. 

"It  is  an  humble  wish,  and  I've  dreamed  of 
it  many  a  night  since  we  have  been  here." 

And  thus  it  did  really  seem  to  the  pilot  and 
many  of  the  crew  .also,  for  the  beautiful  island 
appeared  to  produce  spontaneously  nearly  all 
that  men  could  need  for  food.  And  many 
was  the  sigh  those  honest  hearts  uttered  for 
those  they  had  left  at  horns,  that  they  could 
not  there  together  er;joy  such  richness  of  cli 
mate,  such  delicious  fruits,  and  such  loveliness 
as  surrounded  them  on  all  sides. 

Gathered  about  the  entrance  of  their  tents, 
upon  the  soft  green  sward,  the  seamen  would 
smoke  their  pipes  and  spin  those  yarns  and  sea 
stories  that  form  the  charm  of  the  forecastle. 
Some  were  of  the  actual  experience  of  these 
rovers  of  the*  deep,  and  some  were  re-told 
from  other  lips.  A  bold  adventurous  vein 
generally  pervaded  them,  though  they  rarely 
ended  without  a  love  plot,  for  seamen  are  pro 
verbially  gallant. 

It  was  a  wild  scene  that  the  crew  thus  al 
most  nightly  presented,  and  Sir  Robert  and  the 
pilot,  whose  tents  were  a  short  distance  from 
the  rest,  which  they  overlooked,  sometimes 
stole  down  to  within  ear-shot  to  listen,  for  di 
version's  sake,  to  some  of  these  nautical  yarns  ; 
nor  were  they  without  interest  even  to  them, 
now  thrown  so  completely  upon  their  own  re 
sources  for  amusement. 


CHAPTER    VI, 


THE    SAILOR'S    YARN. 


Cease,  rude  Boreas,  blustering  railer  ! 

List,  ye  landsmen,  all  to  me  ; 
Messmates,  hear  a  brother  sailor 

Sing  the  dangers  of  the  sea. 


STEVENS. 


A  ROTJGH  and  hearty  set  of  men  were  they 
that  were  left  of  the  Northumberland's  crew. 
They  were  gathered  now  as  we  have  describ 
ed,  before  their  tents  in  a  social  knot,  when 
Jack  Spencer,  a  sort  of  spokesman  among 
them,  and  the  same  Jack  who  was  helmsman 
when  the  pilot  first  discovered  the  island, 
spoke  up  : 

"Well,  messmates,"  said  he,  "I  shouldn't 
mind  about  bcin'  cast  away  once  in  a  while,  if 
so  be  I  might  fall  in  with  Bill  Jenks's  luck." 

"  What  was  that,  Jack  ?"  said  a  half-dozen 
voices  in  a  single  breath. 

"  O,  bother  it !"  replied  Jack  Sfencer,  cram 
ming  a  large  quid  of  tobacco  in  his  cheek,  and 
looking  a  little  annoyed  at  the  query ;  "  I  d'n 
know.  The  yarn  has  been  stowed  away  so 
long,  that  I'm  blasted  if  I  can  get  hold  of  it 
just  now.  But  wait  a  bit,  and  p'raps  I'll  get 
an  end  out." 

"  Heave  ahead,  my  hearty,1'  said  one  at  his 
elbow,  "  reel  it  off." 

"  Yes,  pay  out,  old  fellow,"  chimed  in  a 
half-dozen  of  his  messmates. 

Jack  paused  for  a  moment,  and  thrust  his 
hand  under  his  tarpaulin  as  if  he  had  ?udden- 


ly  discovered  the  location  of  the  missing  yarn, 
then  settling  himself  comfortably  he  began  : 

"  You  see  now,  messmates,  though  I'd  be  a 
bit  puzzled  to  overhaul  the  story,  it's  not  1 
that  would  ever  forget  Bill  Jenks ;  no,  nor 
you  either  if  ye'd  ever  seen  him.  He  was  a 
sailor ;  none  of  your  fresh  water  shark  or 
land  crab  about  him ;  he  was  a  true-blue  every 
inch  of  him,  and  no  mistake,  and  as  fancy  a 
chap  too  as  ever  I  clapped  eyes  on;  figure 
head,  cutwater,  plank-shear  and  all.  Well, 
d'ye  see,  I  knowed  him  in  old  Portsmouth, 
and  the  women  all  said  there  was  never  a 
prettier  blue  jacket  stopped  ashore,  than  B;'.! 
Jenks.  Ay,  he  was  a  whole-hearted  sailor, 
stem  and  stern." 

"  Belay  that,"  said  a  rough  tar  opposite  to 
Jack  Spencer,  "you've  g"t  your  craft  full- 
rigged,  why  don't  you  launch  it  and  stand  ou* 
into  deep  water  ?" 

"  Ay,  ay.  Well,  d'ye  see,  it  was  this  way 
with  Bill  Jenks.  It  was  when  he  was  livirf*- 
ashore  at  Portsmouth,  with  plenty  of  prize 
money  aboard  and  all  fair  weather  aloft,  he 
had  made  up  to  get  spliced  to  a  neat  little 
craft  that  he'd  in  tow  for  the  matter  of  a  year 


32 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


or  two,  and  then  to  take  a  shop  and  settle 
down  for  life  on  shore.  Well,  d'ye  see,  just 
as  the  day  was  fixed  and  all  the  tackle  was 
got  ready  to  histe  'em  right  into  matrimony, 
what  does  the  gal  do  but  let  fly  her  sheets  and 
run  off  afore  the  wind  with  a  flash  sargent  or 
cop'ral,  or  some  of  these  under  officers  among 
the  sogers!  Savin'  one  on  'em,  I  used  to 
know,  I  wish  all  red  coats  to  the  bottom. 

"  Well,  d'ye  see,  poor  Bill  was  mighty  like 
our  old  ship  when  she  heaved  too,  and  went 
over  spank  on  her  beam-ends ;  it  a'most  cap 
sized  him.  Well,  the  long  and  the  short  of 
it  was,  that  he  gave  away  his  prize  money  to 
his  old  mother  and  a  sister  that  he  had,  and 
shipped  agin.  He  went  aboard  the  first  ship 
that  took  his  eye,  without  so  much  as  asking 
vrhere  bound  or  what  sarvice ;  but  it  turned 
out  that  the  ship  was  a  Canton  trader,  and 
glad  enough  were  they,  I  warrant  ye,  when 
they  found  out  the  val'y  of  Bill  Jenks,  for  he 
know'd  everything  about  a  ship  from  stem  to 
starn-post,  and  from  keel  to  main-truck ;  he'd 
slept  in  a  hammock  from  a  boy. 

"As  for  the  captain  of  the  ship,  he  was  an 
owner's  son,  put  in  with  a  mate  to  nuss  him 
and  whisper  into  his  ear  what  to  say,  when 
he  walked  the  quarter  deck;  howsomever,  all 
wonld  have  gone  well  enough,  only  by-and-by 
the  youngster  got  to  know  just  enough  to 
make  him  fqplish  and  pig-witted.  So  one 
dark  night  in  the  Pacific,  when  it  was  blowin' 
big  guns,  the  young  captain  as  would  be, 
plumped  the  ship  chuck  on  a  reef  near  the 
Friendly  Isles.  In  course,  she  went  to  pieces 
right  off,  and  not  a  soul  was  saved  from  the 
wreck,  except  Bill  and  the  second  mate. — 
They  were  carried  by  a  serge  upon  the  reef, 
where  they  crawled  upon  a  high  point,  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  furious  and  boilin'  waves. 

"  Well,  they  passed  a  dismal  night  you 
may  believe;  bu  when  daylight  come  again, 
they  saw  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
within  the  reef,  a  beautiful  little  island,  as 
green  as  a  gen'lman's  park,  with  cocoanuts 
and  other  fruits  that  Bill  didn't  know  anything 
about,  and  a  mazin'  sight  like  this  little  bit  of 


an  isle  that  we're  on  now,  messmates,  which  I 
hold  to  be  an  uncommon  blessin'  to  us,  seeir  ' 
as  we  had  laid  our  course  for  Davy  Jones' 
locker,  and  were  suddinly  brought  up  here  all 
standin' ! 

"  Bill  and  the  mate  swam  over  the  little 
patch  of  water,  and  spying  all  about,  they  dis 
covered  that  there  wasn't  a  soul  on  the  island 
besides  themselves,  which  pleased  them  might 
ily,  for  you  know  them  islanders  are  many  of 
them  cannibals,  and  make  nothin'  of  roastin'  a 
feller  without  sauce.  They  saw,  howsomever, 
the  shore  of  another  island  off  to  the  nor'ard 
three  leagues  or  so,  but  didn't  have  much  fear 
of  having  a  visit  from  the  inhabitants,  who 
you  know  have  no  crafts  larger  than  their  pad 
dle  canoes.  Well,  when  they  come  to  build 
themselves  a  snuggery,  they  minded  to  put  it 
as  much  out  of  sight  as  might  be,  and  be 
handy  to  the  beach,  and  give  'em  a  chance  to 
keep  a  bright  look-out  for  any  craft  that  might 
be  passing  the  island. 

"  So,  d'ye  see,  they  fixed  up  a  little  place 
among  the  trees  against  the  side  of  a  hill,  and 
got  everything  ship-shape  as  might  be,  consid- 
erin'  their  outfit,  and  then  they  lived  like  offi 
cers  in  a  cabin,  independent  as  lords.  Bill 
said  there  was  only  one  thing  wantin',  and 
that  was,  he  miss'd  havin1  no  hammock  to 
turn  into  when  it  was  his  watch  below,  and 
then  again  when  he  came  to  think  of  his  old 
mother  and  Portsmouth,  it  used  to  bring  him  a 
little  aback.  But,  'cept  these,  Bill  and  the 
mate  was  gay  as  a  pleasure  yacht,  spinnin' 
yarns  and  eatin'  yams  and  cocoanuts.  How 
somever,  tain't  allers  calm  wether,  and  they 
soon  got  into  rough  water. 

"  One  day,  a  lot  of  the  savages  come  over 
from  the  other  island  and  landed,  before  Bill 
or  the  mate  know'd  anything .  about  it,  for 
they'd  got  careless  and  didn't  keep  watch  as 
they  they'd  ought  to  done.  As  soon  as  they 
see'd  the  savages,  they  clapped  on  all  sail  and 
run  for  their  anchorage  and  got  the  hatches 
down.  But  the  savages  got  a  wink  at  a  foot 
print  in  the  sand,  or  su'thin'  of  the  sort,  and 
they  were  wide  awake,  I  tell  ye. 


\£7~The  second  number  of  this  work  will  be  published  and  for  sale  Saturday  A^ril  27. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


CHAPTER  VI.— [CONTINUED.] 


"  Savages  arri't  fools,  and  they  know'd 
quick  enough  that  the  signs  show'd  somebody 
else  besides  their  own  people  had  been  stan'- 
in'  off  and  on  there  lately,  By  follerin1  in 
their  wake,  they  soon  overhauled  'em,  and 
brought  up  all  stan'in'  afore  their  snuggery. 

"  If  Bill  had  only  had  two  or  three  muskets, 
and  some  of  the  right  sort  o'  stuff  to  put  in 
'em,  he'd  a  given  'em  a  broadside  that  would 
have  made  'em  shear  off  and  haul  their  wind, 
but  as  it  was,  the  thing  couldn't  be  helped. — 
He  and  the  mate  fit  hard,  but  'twasn't  no  use. 
The  mate  was  killed  dead  as  a  hammer,  and 
Bill  was  floored  at  last  by  a  blow  twixt  wind 
and  water,  which  nearly  bilged  him.  But,  I 
tell  ye,  mor'n  one  of  them  heathens  bit  dust 
afore  that  came  to  pass.  So  they  plundered 
the  cabin,  and  put  Bill  into  one  of  their  ca 
noes  and  off  they  steered  for  home,  yellin'  and 
singin'  like  a  squall  in  the  riggin'  of  a  seven 
ty-four. 

"When  they  came  to  land  again  and  lifted 
Bill  out,  he  fell  into  a  swoond,  for  he  was 
terribly  wounded,  and  hadn't  so  much  life  in 
him  as  a  drown'd  cat.  When  he  came  to, 
he  was  layin'  on  some  mats  in  the  corner  of 
one  of  their  houses,  and  a  girl  was  kneelin'  by 
his  side  fannin'  of  him.  She  was  a  savage 
too,  d'ye  see,  but  for  all  that  when  Bill  waked 
up  and  saw  her  handsome  face  a-watchin'  of 
him,  and  looking  so  pitiful-like,  he  thought  to 
himself  that  if  all  the  savages  were  to  look 


like  her,  they'd  be  very  decent  lookin'  sort  o' 
chaps  after  all.  So  when  Bill  had  taken  an 
observation,  said  he  : 

"  '  Sarv'nt,  ma'am.' 

"  Bill,  d'ye  see,  was  always  perlite,  bein's 
he  was  brought  up  in  a  real  gen'lman's  house, 
where  his  mother  was  a  kind  of  officer ;  they 
call  it  house-skipper,  I  believe,  though  I  dorr  t 
understand  these  land  matters.  It  didn't  take 
him  long  to  find  out  that  she  didn't  know  a 
word  of  English,  and  so  he  tried  to  lift  him 
self  and  make  a  bow,  ship-shape,  but,  lord  love 
ye!  he  couldn't  no  more  start  himself  than  I 
could  hist  in  the  ship's  anchor  alone.  Then 
the  pretty  one  she  shook  her  head  and  pressed 
her  little  hand  on  his  forehead  ;  and,  my  stars  ! 
Bill  couldn't  have  understood  better  if  she'd 
told  him  with  her  own  mouth,  to  lie  still  and  be 
quiet  and  go  to  sleep.  So,  d'ye  see,  Bill  clos'd 
his  eyes  and  made  b'lieve  to  obey  orders,  and 
then  he'd  open  'em  a  bit  and  take  an  observa 
tion  on  the  sly,  and  as  the  girl  still  knelt  by 
him  fannin'  of  him  and  coelin'  the  fever  of  his 
wounds,  Bill  thought  she  might  have  been  an 
angel;  only  angels,  you  know,  don't  have 
that  sort  of  complexion.  And  then — " 

"  Avast  there,  Jack,"  interrupted  he  who 
had  before  spoken,  "  can't  you  heave  ahead  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Jack,  rolling  over  the  big  quid 
in  his  mouth,  so  as  to  deposit  it  in  the  oppo 
site  cheek  from  where  it  had  been  coiled  up, 
"I  s'pose  I  do  steer  a  little  wild,  but,  lord  love 


36 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


you,  messmates,  there's  time  enough  here  on 
this  sweet  bit  of  land.  But  I'll  haul  aft  the 
sheet  and  trim  up  to  my  course. 

"  Well,  d'ye  see,  the  pretty  Fedi  watched 
over  Bill  and  gave  him  water  and  took  care  of 
him  till  he  was  almost  dead  in  love  with  her 
sweet  face,  until  at  last  he  'bout  forgot  his  old 
sweetheart  and  Portsmouth  troubles.  But  all 
this  time,  Bill  see'd  these  cantankerous  hea 
thens  skulkin'  about  and  takin'  a  look  at  him 
once  in  a  while,  as  if  to  see  when  he'd  be  fit 
to  be  cooked.  Bill  didn't  like  that  zackly,  and 
so  at  last  he  made  signs  to  Fedi,  pointin'  to 
one  of  the  savages  that  came  trampin'  along, 
and  then  puttin'  his  finger  to  his  mouth  and 
pointin'  to  himself  again,  as  much  as  to  say  : 

"  '  Fedi,  are  your  messmates  going  to  eat 
me  when  I  get  launched  again  ?' 

"  But  the  pretty  girl  seemed  so  taken  aback, 
and  she  looked  so  frightened  and  flustered 
like,  with  big  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  Bill  gave 
it  up  and  asked  no  more  questions.  'Any 
how,"  said  he  to  himself,  '  if  I  must  be  roasted 
or  biled,  I  hope  little  Fedi  will  be  head-cook. 
She'd  do  it  so  neatly  and  nice  fashion-like — 
'twould  almost  be  a  comfort.'  " 

"  That's  all  gammon,  that  'ere,"  growled  a 
hoarse  voice  by  his  side. 

"  Well,  I  don't  care,  messmate,"  apologized 
Jack  Spencer,  "  I  know  Bill  Jenks  felt  so  just 
then.  But,  don't  bother  me,  or  else  I'll  lose 
the  slack  of  it  altogether.  Well,  d'ye  see,  in 
a  few  days  Bill  got  so  as  to  move  about,  and 
Fedi  kept  as  close  by  him  as  though  she  had 
been  set  to  keep  guard  over  him.  By-and-by 
there  was  a  great  gatherin'  near  the  chiefs 
house,  for  you  must  know  it  was  at  the  head- 
chief's  or  king's  house  that  Bill  was  confined, 
and  this  Fedi  was  his  daughter. 

"  Fedi  looked  frightened  and  troubled,  and 
all  of  a  sud'n  some  of  the  savages  came  and 
took  Bill  and  carried  him  out  to  a  place  where 
they  had  made  a  ring  of  stones  and  kindled  a 
great  fire.  Well,  in  course,  Bill  made  up  his 
mind  that  now  they  were  goin'  to  cook  and 
eat  him,  for  sure;  but  he  was  so  weak  he 
couldn't  show  fight  no  mor'n  a  child,  so  he 
thought  he'd  take  it  as  cool  as  he  could,  con- 
siderin'  the  fire.  Pretty  soon  out  stepped  two 
butcher  looking  chaps,  with  sharp  pointed 
stones,  and  Bill  began  to  brace  himself  up  to 
die  with  a  stout  heart  and  man  fashion.  For, 
d'ye  see,  messmates,  he'd  never  wronged  any 


body,  and  hoped  to  make  a  good  end  ov't,  as 
though  he'd  never  been  Jack  in  the  forecastle, 
'mongst  foul  words  and  foul  weather. 

"Just  then,  when  he  thought  all  was  over, 
he  felt  two  little  arms  clasping  him  about,  and 
heard  Fedi  cryin',  and  threatenin',  and  be- 
seechin',  and  all  the  while  keepin'  her  little 
tongue  goin'  like  a  fog  bell  in  the  channel. — 
Then  a  big  chief,  whose  brother  it  seems  had 
been  killed  in  the  fight  on  the  other  island  by 
Bill,  rushed  into  the  circle  with  his  war-club 
to  kill  him.  Then  Fedi  screamed  and  placed 
herself  right  athwart  Bill's  body,  and  at  once 
the  chief  fell  dead  by  a  blow  given  by  the 
head-chief  himself,  Fedi's  father.  Then  the 
head-chief  stepped  inside  the  circle,  and  com 
menced  a  great  palaver,  which  Bill  didn't  un 
derstand  a  word  of  at  the  time,  though  he  af 
terwards  larnt  that  he  told  the  other  savages 
that  Bill  was  a  wah-woo,  that  is,  a  smart  man, 
one  who  know'd  a  great  deal,  and  could  help 
'em  in  war  and  make  wepons  for  'em,  and 
show  'em  how  to  build  fine  houses  and  big 
canoes. 

"  D'ye  see,  the  reason  was,  Finow,  the  old 
king,  had  no  other  daughter  than  Fedi,  and 
set  everything  by  her ;  and  she  bein'  so  deter 
mined  Bill  shouldn't  be  killed,  why  he  gave 
in  to  her,  and  bein'  a  cunnin'  old  chap,  tried 
to  make  the  best  of  it  with  his  messmates. — 
The  savages  then  led  Bill  off  to  the  beach  and 
put  him  into  a  canoe,  and  rowed  him  over  to 
a  place  where  there  was  a  low,  dark  bildin' ; 
with  posts  carved  with  idols  and  grinnin' 
faces,  and  locked  him  up.  Bill  lay  all  night 
on  a  mat  in  one  corner,  ftelin'  dull  enough, 
you  may  depend,  for  he'd  no  sort  of  idea  what 
they  was  goin'  to  do  with  him.  As  for  bein' 
kept  prisoner,  or  powder-monkey,  or  bottle- 
washer,  or  deck-swabber  to  the  tarnal  hea 
thens,  there  was  no  satisfaction  in  that,  and 
he'd  as  liefs  be  roasted  and  eaten  up  at  once  ; 
and  yet  somehow  he  hoped  to  live  for  Fedi's 
sake,  and  to  have  a  chance  to  thank  her  for 
havin'  done  so  much  for  him. 

"  Well,  by-and-by,  Bill  fell  fast  asleep,  and 
in  the  first  mornin'  watch,  come  them  same 
heathens  again,  with  a  great  noise  and  pow 
wow,  and  took  Bill  and  put  him  into  a  canoe 
and  rowed  him  back  again  to  the  big  island. 
They  carried  him  to  King  Finow's  house  once 
more,  and  as  he  come  towards  the  place,  he 
met  the  king  and  Fedi,  who  looked  to  him 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


37 


more  beautiful  than  ever.  Well,  the  king  he 
took  Bill's  hand  and  placed  his  daughter's  in  it, 
and  a  priest  waved  a  grinnin'  wooden  idol  over 
them,  and  Bill  was  made  to  understand  that 
Fedi  was  his  wife !  and  that  he  would  soon  be 
made  a  sort  of  chief  skipper  of  the  king's 
canoes  or  something  of  the  sort. 

"  So,  d'ye  see,  Bill  on  the  whole  was  migh 
ty  well  satisfied.  He  and  Fedi  lived  together 
as  happy  as  may  be ;  she  teachin'  him  to  talk 
Tonga,  and  he  tellin'  her  all  about  old  England. 
"Well,  Bill  got  to  be  a  great  man  on  the  island, 
for  he  show'd  the  natives  a  great  many  things 
they  never  dreamt  of  afore,  but  it  wasn't  very 
long  before  he  began  to  feel  a  little  uneasy, 
thinkin'  how  much  he'd  like  to  see  old  Ports 
mouth  once  more,  and  at  least  get  a  word  to 
his  old  mother  that  he  was  such  a  great  chief 
and  married  a  king's  daughter,  and  then  he 
wanted  to  send  home  somethin'  by  way  of  re 
membrance  like,  nothin'  more  'n  natural. 

"  Well,  Fedi  got  some  suspicion  of  this  and 
come  to  him  one  day  cryin',  and  tellin'  him 
that  she  knew  he  meant  to  leave  her  the  first 
chance,  and  go  off  to  his  own  people  across 
the  ocean.  Bill  was  fairly  flustered,  for  he 
loved  Fedi  very  much ;  and  she  took  on  so 
hard  that  fin'lly  he  made  a  clean  breast  on't, 
and  told  her  all  about  it,  and  how  he  wanted 
to  see  his  old  mother  and  his  own  country, 
and  that  when  he  had  done  this  he'd  come 
back  to  Tonga  again,  and  he  wanted  Fedi  to 
go  with  him  in  the  big  ship  that  walked  the 
water  and  talked  thunder. 

"  '  I'll  go  anywhere  with  you,'  says  Fedi ; 
and  so  she  would,  for  she  loved  him  'mazingly. 

"  At  last  an  English  tradin'  ship  cast  an 
chor  off  Tonga,  and  Bill  persuaded  Fedi  to 
keep  matters  to  herself  and  go  secretly  on 
board  the  big  ship  with  him,  promising  to 
bring  her  back  again  after  a  while  to  her 
father.  But  the  trouble  was  to  go  on  board 
without  the  natives  knowin'  of  it,  for  they 
wouldn't  let  Bill  go  at  any  rate  if  they  could 
help  it,  he  was  too  useful.  Besides,  King 
Finow  wouldn't  have  run  the  risk  of  his 
daughter's  bein'  lost  altogether,  and  never 
seein'  her  again.  But  Fedi  bl'eved  every 
word  Bill  told  her,  just  as  if  'twas  gospel, 
'caus  Bill  never  told  her  no  lies. 

"  Well,  d'ye  see,  Bill  and  Fedi  got  aboard 
the  ship  by  a  trick  of  their  own,  and  when  the 
king  and  the  rest  of  the  savages  found  it  out, 


there  was  a  regular  catawalapin',  I  tell  ye,  and 
King  Finow  come  alongside  to  have  a  talk 
with  Bill  and  get  him  and  Fedi  ashore ;  so  the 
upshot  of  it  was  that  Bill  talked  to  him  like 
a  parly'ment,  and  told  him  he  would  certainly 
come  back  from  England  and  bring  him  a 
dozen  new  hatchets  for  a  present,  and  other 
things,  and  that  he  was  only  goin'  to  make  his 
own  folks  a  visit.  So  Bill  pacified  the  whole 
mess,  and  then  parted  as  grig  as  a  middy  just 
got  his  warrant.  Well,  the  islanders  put  lots 
of  stuff  aboard,  sandal  wood  and  curiosities, 
besides  yams  and  lots  o'  shore  truck  and  vege 
tables,  and  off  went  Bill  and  Fedi  for  old 
England. 

"  Well,  when  they  got  to  Portsmouth  Bill's 
story  was  spread  about  and  made  a  great  noise. 
By-and-by  it  got  to  the  ears  of  some  of  the 
great  lords  of  London,  and  from  them  to  the 
king  and  queen,  and  nothin'  would  do  but  Bill 
and  Fedi  must  come  up  to  London  and  make 
a  visit  to  the  court  and  nobility.  In  course 
they  couldn't  do  elsewise  than  obey  orders, 
and  Bill  hadn't  no  objections  neither,  for  by 
this  time  he'd  got  Fedi  quite  ship-shape,  and 
in  English  trim,  and  as  she  was  wide  awake 
as  a  lark  and  quick  to  larn,  she  know'd  how 
to  behave  herself  as  pretty  as  any  of  the  great 
madams.  So  off  they  went  to  Windsor  cas 
tle,  with  a  lord  to  show  'em  the  way,  and 
pilot  'em  round. 

"  When  they  got  there,  d'ye  see,  there  was 
the  king  and  queen,  and  all  the  great  nobility; 
and  Bill  was  asked  to  tell  his  'ventures,  and 
he  pleased  'em  mightily.  But  what  they  most 
took  a  shine  to,  was  Fedi,  and  they  crowded 
round  and  asked  her  lots  o'  questions,  which  she 
answered  in  such  nice  little  odd  parley-vous, 
that  they  was  all  delighted  with  her.  Bill 
he'rd  'em  say  to  each  other  that  she  was  reg- 
'lar  'andsome,  and  not  a  bit  savage-like,  that 
she  looked  a  great  deal  like  one  of  them  dark 
Spaniard  girls  that  they  talk  so  much  about ; 
Bill  said  he  thought  they'd  hit  it  pretty  near, 
and  if  Fedi  wasn't  a  real  beauty,  then  he'd 
never  seed  anybody  that  was,  and  for  roy'l 
blood  why  she  was  chuck  full  of  it. 

"  Howsomever,  they  had  a  grand  time  of  it, 
and  the  queen  made  Fedi  lots  of  rich  presents, 
and  even  took  a  splendid  ring  off  her  finger 
and  put  it  on  Fedi's,  when  they  parted,  to  re 
member  her  by." 

"  Well,"  interrupted  a  foremast  hand  oppo- 


38 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


site  to  Jack  Spencer,  "  Bill  Jenks  couldn't 
have  been  such  a  created  fool  as  to  let  his  wife 
take  him  off  to  the  Friendlies  again  when 
he'd  got  under  the  lee  of  such  comforts  as 
you  tell  on  about  home." 

"  Of  course  he  couldn't,"  said  one  or  two. 

"  By  no  sort  of  means,"  said  another. 

44  He  had  the  law  all  in  his  own  hands," 
said  another. 

"  He  might  have  made  a  fortune  showin'  his 
pretty  wife  as  one  of  the  natives  of  the 
Friendlies,"  continued  the  old  sea  dog  who 
spoke  first. 

"  But  how  was  it,  Jack  ?"  asked  another 
who  had  not  before  spoken.  "  Did  Bill  Jenks 
make  a  cattle-show  of  his  wife  ?" 

44  That's  the  question,"  chimed  in  the  rest 
of  the  men,  laughing  at  the  idea. 

"  Avast  there,  messmate,"  cried  Jack  Spen 
cer,  somewhat  excited  at  this  remark.  "  Bill 
wasn't  a  chap  to  sail  under  false  colors ;  and 
he  did  by  Fedi  just  as  he  had  promised  he 
would.  So  when  the  people  found  Bill  was 
going  out  again,  they  had  a  talk  about  it  and 
finally  the  long  sent  him  a  warrant  makin' 
him  gov'nor  of  the  island,  though  Bill  said 
that  he  never  meant  to  interfere  with  King 
Finow,  for  he  was  his  father,  and  should  have 
his  say  about  everything  as  long  as  he  lived." 

"  Wall,  thafcjvas  'andsome  in  him,  anyhow, 
seein'  as  how  he  might  'er  superceded  the  old 
chap  if  he'd  like  ter  done  it — eh,  messmates  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  it  was,"  said  several  of  the 
listeners  at  once, 

"  There  wasn't  none  of  your  niggardly 
land  shark  about  him,"  said  Jack  Spencer. 

"  Never  a  bit  of  it,"  said  they  all,  joining 
heartily. 

"  But  Jack,  you're  not  agoin'  to  bring  up 
with  a  short  hitch  in  that  'ere  fashion,  are 
yer?" 

41  Ay,  he's  missed  stays,"  said  one  close  by 
his  side. 

44  Shivers  in  the  wind,"  suggested  another, 
emblematically. 

"  Has  let  go  his  anchor  where  there's  no 
bottom,"  said  a  third. 


"  Brace  sharp  up,  Jack,  and  lay  her  head 
to  the  wind  again." 

"  Avast  a  bit,  messmates,  and  I'll  gather 
away  once  more." 

41  Belay  that,  messmates,"  said  a  rough  old 
tar  who  had  been  listening  quietly ;  "  give 
Jack  the  helm,  and  let  him  manage  his  own 
craft." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  chimed  in  the  rest,  tired  of  hear 
ing  all  hands  talking. 

"  As  to  the  matter  of  missing  stays,"  said 
Jack  Spencer,  not  exactly  satisfied  at  the 
turn  the  conversation  had  taken,  "  I  deny 
that  altogether,  and  should  have  made  a  clean 
tack  of  it,  hadn't  Ben  Bower  stood  athwart 
my  horse  in  such  a  lubberly  fashion." 

44  All  right,  all  right,  Jack." 

44  Go  ahead,  go  ahead." 

44  Pay  out,  pay  out." 

And  such  like  cries  encouraged  Jack  to  go 
on  and  conclude  his  story. 

44  Well,  d'ye  see,  Bill  was  put  aboard  one 
of  the  gov'mt  cruisers,  and  plenty  of  muskets 
and  ammunition  were  given  to  him,  and  a 
missionary  parson  was  sent  out  with  them  to 
preachify  to  the  savages,  and  help  make  'em 
civilized  like.  When  Bill  and  Fedi  landed  at 
Tonga  again,  there  was  a  great  jubilee,  and  he 
was  made  second  king  on  the  spot,  and  governs 
there  now,  so  I  heard  when  I  was  last  in  Ports 
mouth.  Anyhow  I  mean  to  go  there  one  of 
these  days,  providin'  we  reach  England  again, 
and  be  made  adm'ral  or  post-captain,  or  some- 
thin'  of  the  kind,  for  Bill  Jenks  wasn't  never 
the  chap  to  forget  an  old  messmate." 

44  Look  a  here,"  said  Ben  Bower,  4<  couldn't 
ye  take  a  chap  long  with  ye  ?" 

44  No,  shiver  my  timbers  if  I  would  take 
you  after  you  come  down  on  me  in  that  style." 

44  No  offence,  Jack  Spencer,"  said  his  mess 
mate;  44Iwas  only  looking  out  ahead,  that's 
all." 

44  Square  the  yards  and  be  friends  again," 
said  two  or  three  at  once. 

44  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Ben  Bower. 
44  Jack  give  us  your  honest  fives." 

"  There  they  are,  messmate,"  said  Jack. 


I 


CHAPTER   VII. 


THE   PILOT'S   STORY. 

Did  I  tremble  1  Ah  then  'twas  not  from  fear 
That  I  did  shake,  but  from  saddest  memory. 


OLD  PLAY. 


SIR  ROBERT  and  the  pilot  puffed  out  the 
"ast  whiffs  of  their  cheroots,  as  Jack  Spencer 
finished  his  yarn,  and  walked  away  unobserv 
ed  by  the  crew,  who  had  been  listening  with 
that  absorbed  attention  that  seamen  always 
accord  to  romance  or  a  record  of  strange  ad 
venture,  from  whatever  source. 

"  A  pretty  forecastle  story,"  said  the  pilot, 
"  and  told  in  true  sailor  fashion." 

"  Not  so  badly  put  together  for  a  simple 
seaman,  either,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

In  this  way  the  spare  mements  of  the 
wrecked  party  were  passed  on  the  island, 
while  day  by  day  they  pressed  forward  with 
the  utmost  industry  the  building  of  the  little 
vessel  that  they  hoped  would  carry  them  safe 
to  their  native  land.  There  were  no  drones  in 
the  hive,  every  man  bent  his  full  strength  to 
the  object,  for  it  became  common  interest,  and 
was  alike  for  the  good  of  each  one  employed. 
More  than  that,  the  work  was  better  done  as 
well  as  faster,  inasmuch  as  those  parts  that 
under  ordinary  circumstances  might  have  been 
slighted,  being  prepared  and  fitted  by  interest 
ed  hands,  were  sure  to  be  well  done  in  every 
respect. 

On  the  southern  part  of  the  island  in  a  lit 
tle  valley  that  was  so  petite  and  perfect  in  its 
picturesque  beauty  as  to  appear  almost  artifi 
cial,  and  through  which  meandered  a  little 


miniature  river,  over  which  an  agile  man 
might  easily  leap,  Sir  Robert  found  a  prize. 
It  was  a  cluster  of  emeralds  of  such  rare  size 
and  purity  as  to  be  almost  as  valuable  as  dia 
monds.  This  discovery  induced  further  re 
search,  and  Sir  Robert  and  the  pilot  found  the 
bed  of  this  fairy-like  stream  to  abound  in  these 
precious  stones,  besides  discovering  also  now 
and  then  a  very  brilliant  oiamond.  Many 
leisure  hours  were  passed  by  them  in  quietly 
securing  a  portion  of  these  rich  stones,  and 
of  course  all  thediamonds  that  they  could  find. 

It  was  not  deemed  prudent  that  the  crew 
should  know  of  this  discovery,  and  therefore 
these  researches  were  conducted  in  secret  until 
both  had  secured  two  little  leathern  bags,  one 
of  emeralds  and  the  other  of  diamonds  in  the 
rough  state,  enough  to  make  a  fortune  in  Eng 
land  for  any  one  man.  In  Sir  Robert's  case 
this  was  a  matter  comparatively  unimportant  ; 
but  with  the  pilot  it  was  quite  another  affair, 
as  he  would  otherwise  have  landed,  should 
they  ever  reach  England,  without  a  penny  m 
his  pocket,  and  thus  be  dependent  upon  others 
for  the  means  of  subsistence.  As  it  was,  he 
felt  himself  to  be  quite  his  own  master,  and 
independent  of  even  Sir  Robert's  kind  liber 
ality. 

In  one  of  their  excursions  to  the  emerald 
valley,  a  strange  and  somewhat  startling  cir- 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


cumstance  occurred.  Sir  Robert  and  the 
pilot  were  searching  for  precious  stones, 
together,  when  they  heard  a  rustling  sound  of 
a  peculiar  character  near  by  them,  and  a 
most  strange  hissing  that  they  could  not 
understand,  but  still  they  kept  on  at  their 
employment,  though  pausing  every  now  and 
then  to  wonder  at  the  repetition  of  the 
strange  sounds.  This  was  continued  for  nearly 
an  hour,  until  just  as  they  were  preparing  to 
leave  the  valley  for  their  encampment,  Sir 
Robert  heard  the  pilot  cry  out  with  a  voice  of 
horror,  and  saw  him  fall  senseless  to  the  earth. 
In  the  next  instant  he  discovered  at  some  ten 
yards  distant,  the  body  of  a  large  snake,  of 
some  ten  feet  in  length,  which  with  head  erect 
and  curling  tail,  was  gazing  full  at  them  both. 

Sir  Robert's  first  impulse  was  to  attack  it 
with  a  heavy  stick  that  he  walked  with,  for 
he  had  no  weapons  about  him ;  but  the  crea 
ture  in  a  moment  glided  silently  away  towards 
the  foot  of  the  valley,  and  Sir  Robert  turned 
his  attention  to  his  companion.  His  first  fear 
was  that  the  snake  might  have  stung  or  bitten 
him,  and  thus  poisoned  the  pilot,  but  on  ex 
amination  he  could  find  no  signs  of  this  upon 
his  person,  and  it  was  some  time  before  Sir 
Robert  could  revive  his  companion  from  the 
swoon  into  which  he  had  fallen,  sufficiently  to 
enable  him  to  speak.  He  was  astonished 
that  the  sight  of  a  serpent  or  indeed  anything 
else,  should  have  so  affected  a  brave  man  as 
this  had  done.  It  puzzled  him  to  think  that 
one  so  full  of  courage  and  daring,  should  have  • 
fainted  like  a  woman  at  such  a  comparative 
trifle. 

At  last  the  pilot  drew  a  long  breath,  and 
with  a  shudder  raised  himself  upon  his  arm, 
and  in  a  moment,  after  looking  wildly  about 
him,  he  arose  to  his  feet,  but  on  his  eyes  rest 
ing  upon  Sir  Robert,  he  leaned  upon  his 
shoulder,  as  he  said  : 

"  Excuse  this  strange  emotion,  but  it  is  be 
yond  my  power  to  control." 

"  You  are  not  harmed,  I  trust,"  said  Sir 
Robert,  anxiously. 

"  O,  no,  physically  I  am  as  well  as  ever," 
said  the  pilot,  sighing. 

"  What  then  has  affected  you  so  strangely, 
are  you  really  sick  ?" 

"  Spare  me,  another  time,  in  some  other 
place — but  let  us  away  from  here." 

"  With  all  my  heart ;  here,  lean  on  me,  I'm 
*s  stout  as  a  mule." 


"  No,  no,  Sir  Robert.  I  am  quiet  myself 
now ;  it  was  only  mental  excitement,"  said  the 
pilot. 

"Queer,"  said  Sir  Robert  to  himself. 
"  Come,  have  you  got  your  emeralds  ?" 

"  Yes."' 

"It  will  hardly  pay  to  come  this  way  again, 
they  are  getting  so  scarce,  and  our  collection 
is  ample." 

"  True,  we  will  not  come  here  again,"  said 
the  pilot,  hurrying  his  steps  out  of  the  valley. 

It  was  in  the  after  part  of  the  day  that  this 
scene  had  occurred,  and  on  arriving  at  the  en 
campment,  the  pilot  excusing  himself  to  Sir 
Robert,  retired,  nor  was  he  seen  until  the  fol 
lowing  morning. 

"  I  know,"  said  he  to  Sir  Robert,  on  their 
meeting  the  next  day,  "that  my  conduct 
must  have  seemed  very  singular  yesterday, 
and  I  owe  you  who  have  been  so  frank  and 
friendly  with  me,  an  explanation." 

"  I  was  not  a  little  surprised,"  replied  Sir 
Robert,  frankly,  "at  the  occurrence  in  the 
valley." 

"  To  explain  all  to  you,  I  must  tell  you  my 
past  history  and  that  of  my  family,"  said  the 
pilot ;  "  and  to-night  if  agreeable,  I  will  do  so  ; 
then  you  will  no  longer  wonder  at  what  you 
witnessed  yesterday." 

"  I  have  been  on  the  point  of  inquiring 
more  minutely  into  your  history  before  now,'1 
said  Sir  Robert,  "  but  .the  present  excitement 
of  the  hour  has  always  prevented  me  from  do 
ing  so." 

Sir  Robert  had  at  the  outset  learned  that 
the  pilot,  having  lost  his  parents  while  yet 
quite  young,  had  been  sent  to  sea  at  his  own 
request  by  those  who  had  him  in  charge,  and 
that  having  been  well  educated  up  to  the  time 
of  his  going  to  sea,  and  also  entering  on  ship 
board  under  most  favorable  auspicies  for  pro 
motion  and  obtaining  a  good  knowledge  of  a 
seaman's  duty,  he  improved  very  fast.  He  had 
already  been  in  command  of  a  large  vessel. 
At  the  time  that  he  came  on  board  of  the 
Northumberland  as  pilot  ir>  the  Bay  of  Bengal, 
he  was  serving  a  year's  apprenticeship  as  pilotr 
preparatory  to  taking  command  of  one  of  the 
large  East  India  packet  ships  that  belonged  to 
the  East  India  Company,  a  most  responsible 
and  lucrative  commission. 

This  general  idea  alone  was  all  that  Sir 
Robert  knew  of  his  young  but  well  tried  com- 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


41 


panion  and  his  history.  As  they  met  in  the 
evening  to  smoke  together  before  their  tent 
door,  Sir  Robert  said  : 

"  Shall  we  hear  that  story  now  ?" 
"  Yes,"  said  the  pilot,  "  I  had  prepared  to 
tell  you  my  history  this  evening." 

Throwing  themselves  upon  the  soft  green 
sward  before  the  tent,  and  beneath  a  sky  that 
was  as  clear  and  bright  in  its  beautiful  star-lit 
vault  as  the  prophet's  paradise,  the  pilot  be 
gan  : 

"  My  father  was  educated  in  England,  his 
native  land,  for  the  army,  and  after  serving  for 
some  years  in  the  infantry's  service,  and  ris 
ing  to  a  colonelcy  by  gradual  promotion,  he 
had  the  good  fortune  to  distinguish  himself  in 
active  service,  for  which  he  was  made  a  gen 
eral,  and  soon  after  entered  in  that  capacity 
into  the  East  India  Company's  service.  India 
proved  to  be  just  the  spot  for  the*  exercise  of 
his  talent  and  spirit,  and  he  was  soon  made 
Governor  of  the  district  of  Yazo,  including 
the  larger  portions  of  the  British  India  pos 
sessions.  He  married  a  high-born  lady  in 
Calcutta,  and  in  his  domestic  relations  I  have 
reason  to  know,  was  most  happy  and  content 
ed.  I  was  born  in  the  second  year  of  their 
union,  and  being  an  only  child,  was  petted, 
humored  and  loved  with  all  the  affection  of  a 
kind  mother  and  father.  Time  rolled  on  until 
I  was  nearly  twelve  years  of  age,  during 
which  period  I  had  received  every  advantage 
in  instruction  that  a  child  of  that  age  could 
improve. 

"  My  father's  duty  often  called  him  inland, 
in  the  way  of  supervision  of  the  forts,  and 
other  matters  of  the  government,  and  on  such 
journeys  my  mother  often  accompanied  him, 
being  absent  for  weeks  at  a  time.  On  these 
occasions  he  would  lodge  for  the  time  being  in 
the  huts  of  the  natives,  with  whom  my  moth 
er  was  a  great  favorite.  I  remember  well  of 
their  starting  on  one  of  their  tours  together ; 
it  is  as  fresh  in  my  memory  as  though  it 
were  but  yesterday  that  it  took  place.  After 
a  short  absence,  my  father  found  himself  a 
little  separated  from  his  escorting  party  in  the 
jungle,  and  overtaken  by  night,  stopped  at  a  na 
tive  hut  where  he  proposed  to  tarry  until  morn 
ing.  They  were  hospitably  entertained,  and 
slept  soundly  throughout  that  night,  but  when 
the  door  was  opened  by  my  father  in  the 
morning,  the  first  thing  that  met  his  eyes  was 


the  body  of  an  immense  anaconda  coiled 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  entrance,  evidently 
in  watch  of  the  first  being  that  should  come 
out  of  the  hut,  thus  to  satiate  the  ravenous  ap 
petite  that  it  is  so  well  known  to  possess." 

Sir  Robert  recalled  to  his  mind  the  serpent 
they  had  seen  in  the  emerald  valley,  but  said 
nothing. 

"  My  father,"  continued  the  pilot,  "  shut  the 
door  as  quickly  as  possible  and  secured  it,  not 
however  until  he  had  inhaled  the  pestilential 
breath  of  the  foul  animal,  so  near  did  it  dart 
its  head  to  his  face  !  He  staggered  back  and 
fell  down,  for  a  moment  overcome  by  the 
malaria  of  the  serpent's  breath,  which  the  in 
habitants  of  the  jungle  say  produces  a  sure 
but  lingering  death  by  its  poisonous  properties, 
In  the  hut  there  were  only  my  mother,  him 
self,  and  a  native.  The  latter  knowing  but  too 
well  the  nature  and  character  of  the  snake, 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  attempt  any  mode 
of  escape,  stoutly  declaring  that  nothing  should  ' 
induce  him  to  leave  the  hut  until  the  anacon 
da  had  appeased  his  gluttonous  appetite,  and 
still  more,  to  my  mother's  dismay  and  alarm, 
declared  that  he  had  lost  his  only  child  by  one 
who  crushed  and  swallowed  it,  not  more  than 
a  year  before. 

"  Their  only  hope  was  that  some  animal  pass 
ing  that  way  might  attract  the  snake  and 
tempt  his  appetite,  though  the  native  said 
they  scented  human  flesh  a  great  way  off,  and 
when  this  was  the  case,  would  eat  no  other, 
unless  very  hungry.  It  was  also  a  fact  that 
they  were  well  aware  of,  that  most  animals  of 
the  jungle  could  scent  the  reptile  itself,  and 
their  instinct  led  them  to  keep  out  of  his  way. 
Even  the  lion  flees  his  presence,  for  his  won 
derful  capacity  and  appetite  enables  him  to 
swallow  this  formidable  animal  whole,  after 
having  crushed  the  body  and  bones  by  the 
irresistible  power  of  its  fearful  folds  and  coils, 
as  strong  as  a  ship's  cable. 

"  In  this  terrible  situation,  nearly  starred 
for  want  of  even  the  meanest  food,  as  well  a 
being  under  the  most  intense  excitement  of 
mind,  those  within  the  hut  became  at  last  al 
most  distracted,  while  the  serpent,  with  never 
sleeping  eyes,  lay  coiled  there  in  a  way  to 
command  all  parts  of  the  small  circular  cabin, 
lifting  its  flat  and  ugly  head  at  every  sound 
that  was  made  by  the  sufferers,  and  now  and 
then  darting  out  its  forked  tongue  with  increas- 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


ing  appetite  as  it  scented  afresh  those  within 
the  cabin. 

"  All  their  consultations  and  plans  were  of 
no  avail — they  were  imprisoned  beyond  re 
lease.  Their  terrible  enemy  would  not  have 
given  ground  before  a  whole  body  of  cavalry, 
but  would  have  stricken  down  its  victim,  and  as 
it  never  retreats,  would  die  crushing  its  assail 
ants  to  death  in  its  iron  folds.  My  father  fully 
realized  this ;  indeed  he  was  no  stranger,  hav 
ing  been  so  long  in  India,  to  the  character  of 
the  enemy  he  had  to  deal  with.  He  knew 
that  unless  its  appetite  was  appeased,  the  ani 
mal  would  not  leave  its  post  so  long  as  they 
remained  within.  But  calming  my  mother's 
fears  as  well  as  he  was  able,  he  paced  the  nar 
row  limits  of  the  cabin  and  hoped  for  the  best, 
and  that  some  chance  succor  might  come  to 
their  aid,  to  relieve  them  from  their  fearful 
situation. 

"My  father's  only  weapons  were  a  gun,  a 
pair  of  heavy  pistols,  and  his  sword.  The 
latter  was  a  sharp  and  trusty  weapon  that  he 
had  often  wielded  in  battle.  At  last  driven 
to  despair,  he  resolved  in  this  extremity  to 
sally  out  and  give  battle  to  the  snake,  for  he 
declared  to  my  mother  that  death  was  fast 
coming  upon  them  all  in  the  shape  of  famine, 
and  that  by  the  sacrifice  of  himself,  he  could 
save  her  life  at  least,  while  there  still  remain 
ed  a  chance  that  he  might  possibly  escape 
death  in  the  proposed  conflict  with  the  terrible 
and  pestilential  creature.  All  her  entreaties 
for  him  to  give  up  this  purpose  and  to  still 
remain  within  the  cabin,  were  useless.  He 
had  become  desperate,  and  finally  on  the  fourth 
morning,  arming  himself  with  his  drawn 
sword  and  loosening  his  pistols  in  his  belt,  he 
ordered  the  native  to  throw  open  the  door  and 
to  shut  it  quickly  behind  him  again — and  thus 
he  passed  out  to  this  strange  conflict. 

"  Those  within  the  cabin  could  observe  him 
through  the  crevices,  and  from  these  they 
watched  with  fearful  interest ;  the  native  with 
the  most  intense  excitement,  and  my  mother 
almost  crazed  with  fear  for  her  husband's  safe 
ty." 

"  What  a  fearful  situation,"  exclaimed  Sir 
Kobert,  deeply  interested  in  the  relation. 

"  It  was  indeed  awful !"  said  the  pilot. 

"  It  was,  but  go  on." 

"I  will." 

"  My  father  knew  the  nature  of  the  snake," 


continued  the  pilot,  "  that  its  first  movement 
was  to  strike  with  its  tail,  and  then  with  the 
utmost  rapidity  to  wind  itself  about  its  victim, 
and  thus  finally  to  crush  it  to  death.  The 
moment  therefore  that  he  found  himself  out 
side  the  cabin  door,  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
serpent's  tail,  and  as  it  was  quickly  raised  to 
strike  him,  he  managed  to  meet  it  with  the 
keen  edge  of  his  sword,  which  half  severed 
three  feet  off  the  length  of  the  body.  Nothing 
daunted  by  this,  the  serpent  only  drew  back  to 
renew  the  attack  once  more,  and  prepared  to 
wind  about  its  victim,  and  this  time  foiling 
my  father's  weapon,  struck  him  to  the  ground. 

"  In  an  instant  the  serpent  commenced  to 
coil  its  slimy  body  about  its  now  prostrate  vic 
tim  ;  but  my  father's  presence  of  mind  did  not 
for  a  moment  desert  him.  He  remembered  that 
if  he  was  to  die  it  was  to  save  his  beloved  wife, 
and  he  res'olved  to  sell  his  life  as  dearly  as 
possible.  As  he  felt  himself  thus  partially 
overcome,  he  brought  his  sword  to  his  side, 
with  the  edge  outward,  and  as  the  snake  tight 
ened  its  folds,  it  of  course  cut  deeper  and 
deeper  into  its  own  body,  causing  it,  in. 
spite  of  its  furious  haste  to  appease  its  vora 
cious  hunger,  partially  to  uncoil  itself  from  the 
person  of  its  victim,  though  only  to  prepare 
for  a  renewal  of  its  bonds. 

"  In  vain  were  my  mother's  efforts  to  get  the 
native  to  go  to  his  assistance,  and  failing  in 
this,  she  soon  after  fainted  from  exhaustion  and 
fear — while  the  native  still  peered  through  the 
crevice,  at  the  strange  contest. 

"  My  father's  arms  were  thus  partially  re 
lieved  for  a  moment,  and  in  this  brief  space 
of  time,  he  employed  himself  in  loosening  and 
cocking  one  of  his  pistols,  though  he  had 
scarcely  time  to  effect  this  ;  and  when  the  ani 
mal  again  drew  close  about  him,  he  placed  the 
muzzle  against  his  body  and  fired  !  The 
shock  was  for  a  moment  most  decisive,  and 
the  snake  quite  unloosed  itself  from  its  victim 
to  writhe  in  pain,  and  though  my  father  was 
almost  exhausted  by  the  blows  and  pressure 
he  had  received,  yet  he  once  more  resolutely 
attacked  the  enraged  animal  with  his  sword, 
wounding  it  freely  at  every  stroke. 

"  The  snake  suffering  from  these  numerous 
and  severe  wounds,  and  especially  from  the 
more  efficacious  one  of  the  pistol  shot,  the  ball 
of  which  passed  quite  through  his  body,  per 
formed  the  most  fearful  contortions,  evincing 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


43 


tokens  of  acute  suffering.  In  consequence  of 
these-  wounds,  its  movements  became  more 
slow  and  measured,  its  body  no  longer  moving 
with  that  remarkable  activity  that  characterizes 
its  species,  and  yet  its  strange  ungovernable 
appetite  seemed  to  urge  it  on  to  a  further  at 
tack  upon  my  father.  This  time  it  came  on 
head  foremost,  for  its  tail  was  now  too  severely 
wounded  to  strike  with,  and  indeed  it  dragged 
like  a  dead  weight  after  the  other  part  of  the 
body.  As  its  forked  tongue  nearly  reached 
my  father's  face,  he  levelled  his  remaining  pis 
tol  and  fired  the  entire  charge  into  its  very 
mouth !" 

"  That  must  have  killed  it,  surely,"  said  Sir 
Robert,  who  had  risen  to  his  feet  with  excite 
ment  at  the  story. 

"  It  did,  indeed,"  said  the  pilot.  "  The 
snake  dropped  in  an  instant  after  the  shot  took 
effect,  and  in  a  thousand  fearful  contortions  it 
breathed  its  last ! 

"  My  mother  said  that  she  observed  the 
fearful  creature  in  its  death  struggle,  and 
that  its  keen  eyes,  though  peering  out  of  its 
shattered  head,  seemed  to  her  as  almost  hu 
man,  and  that  they  spoke  as  plainly  as  expres 
sion  could  speak,  of  revenge,  hate  and  exulta 
tion  in  death.  The  body  twisted  and  turned 
again  and  again,  its  thick  slimy  folds  embrac 
ing  each  other,  and  when  seemingly  tied  in  a 
close,  strong  knot,  it  would  unloose  itself  and 
straighten  out  to  its  full  length,  and  lay  thus 
trembling,  as  though  shaken  by  the  ground  on 
which  it  lay.  Then  the  scaly  and  dull  hue 
of  its  body  seemed  to  become  chameleon-like 
and  changed  colors,  now  blue,  now  golden, 
and  now  almost  white.  She  seemed  to  be  al 
most  fascinated  by  the  revolting  sight,  and 
could  find  no  power  to  turn  away,  but  gazed 
at  it  still,  in  spite  of  the  suffering  of  her 
husband.  And  thus  strangely  was  the  boor 
who  kept  the  cottage  also  moved ;  the  charm 
seemed  more  strange  upon  him,  and  he  gazed 
upon  the  dying  snake  like  one  entranced. 

"  At  last  it  uttered  a  moan  almost  like  the 
human  voice,  and  unrolling  its  coils,  drew 
itself  forward  a  few  feet  from  where  it  had 
lain  in  these  painful  contortions,  raised  its 
head  to  let  it  fall  heavily  to  the  ground,  trem 
bled  all  over  for  a  moment,  and  lay  at  last 
dead  and  motionless.  The  sight  had  strange 
ly  affected  the  native,  whose  physical  debility 
from  the  want  of  food  had  doubtless  affected 


his  mind,  as  had  also  a  consciousness  of  the 
cowardly  part  that  he  had  enacted  in  permitting 
my  father  to  attack  the  monster  alone,  and 
when  convinced  that  the  snake  was  absolutely 
dead,  he  turned  for  a  moment  one  look  upon 
his  hut  in  the  jungle,  and  then  with  a  wild 
scream  dashed  away  with  the  speed  of  the 
wind.  He  was  never  heard  of  again  !" 

"  What  a  terrible  situation  and  experience 
this  must  have  been  for  your  father." 

"  It  was  terrible,  indeed,  beyond  my  power 
of  description,"  he  answered. 

"  It  was  a  most  happy  deliverance  though," 
said  Sir  Robert,  with  a  long  breath ;  for  he  had 
followed  the  eloquent  delivery  of  the  pilot  in 
every  word,  and  had  been  much  excited  by  it, 
as  we  have  already  mentioned. 

"  A  happy  delivery,"  repeated  the  pilot, 
"  but  a  fatal  encounter." 

"Fatal?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  do  you  mean  it  was  fatal  ?  your 
father  killed  the  snake." 

"True,  but—" 

"What?" 

"  It  was  doubly  fatal,  nevertheless,"  replied 
the  pilot,  sadly. 

"  And  your  father,  after  the  conflict — " 

"  Dragged  himself  into  the  cabin,"  said  the 
pilot,  sadly,  "  to  die  !" 

".Alas  !  after  so  much  bravery,  so  much 
manly  effort,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

Both  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  when 
Sir  Robert  said  : 

"  And  your  mother  :  what  of  her  ?" 

"  She  lived  to  reach  Calcutta,  but  the  pesti 
lential  breath  she  had  inhaled,  the  suffering 
both  in  body  and  mind  she  had  endured,  laid 
her  beside  my  father  within  the  month. 

"  Since  that  day  when  my  mother  told  me 
this  scene  until  yesterday,  I  have  never  seen 
a  snake.  Do  you  wonder  then  that  the  sight 
should  so  have  affected  me  as  it  did  in  the 
emerald  valley  ?" 

"  Not  I." 

"  And  you  do  not  think  that  my  emotion 
was  unmanly  ?" 

"  By  no  means,"  said  Sir  Robert.  "  It  was 
but  natural,  after  the  fearful  visitation  that  had 
made  you  an  orphan." 

The  pilot  made  no  reply,  for  the  relation  of 
the  story  had  affected  him  much,  but  h« 
pressed  Sir  Robert's  hand  warmly. 


CHAPTER,   VIII. 


THE  FREEBOOTER. 


The  great  contention  of  the  sea  and  okies 
Parted  our  fellowship  : — But,  hark  !  a  sail. 


CASSIO. 


SIR  ROBERT  was  much  moved  by  the  singular 
and  interesting  story  of  the  pilot.  The  dan* 
gets  which  they  had  so  lately  shared  together 
rendered  them  warm  friends,  and  Sir  Robert 
told  him  cordially  that  if  he  would  come  with 
him  to  England  with  the  purpose  of  making 
it  his  future  home,  he  might  do  so  as  his  son, 
and  that  he  would  in  all  ways  provide  for  him 
the  same  as  though  this  relationship  were  ce«- 
mented  by  the  ties  of  blood.  In  the  matter 
of  his  pecuniary  means,  their  united  discover}', 
as  we  have  said,  had  given  to  either  suffi 
cient  to  produce  an  independence,  if  it  could 
once  be  safely  deposited  in  any  portion  of  the 
civilized  world.  Delighted  at  the  noble  dis 
position  and  character  of  his  new  friend,  the 
pilot  cheerfully  agreed  to  this  proposition. 

"  I  have  no  relations  in  India,  Sir  Robert, 
and  therefore  no  particular  reason  for  return 
ing  thither.  We  have  been  together  long 
enough  to  know  each  other  well,  and  my  good 
fortune  here  has  given  me  the  means  of  inde 
pendence  should  we  succeed  in  reaching  Eng 
land,  and  therefore  I  accept  with  pleasure  your 
offer  cf  adoption,  and  I  shall  take  both  pride 
and  joy  in  looking  towards  you  as  a  father." 

"  Well  spoken,  my  brave  boy,"  said   Sir 


Robert,  who  really  loved  the  pilot  for  hi?  many 
fine  characteristics.  "  Well  spoken,  and  I 
doubt  not  we  shall  get  on  favorably  together. 
So  from  this  hour  you  are  my  son." 

"  With  all  my  heart,    Sir  Robert." 

"I  am  a  peculiar  man,"  said  Sir  Robert, 
"  such  an  one  as  nine-tenths  of  the  world  des 
pise,  I  presume,  fot  I  equally  despise  just  about 
that  proportion  myself." 

"  You  have  been  unfortunate,  perhaps,  and 
have  thus  been  rendered  in  your  feelings  a 
little  misanthropic  ;  but  I  can  count  a  mass  of 
good  qualities  in  you,  sir,  that  a  casual  eye 
even,  might  see." 

"  Don't  flatter  me,"  said  Sir  Robert,  with 
honest  disgust ;  "  I  can't  bear  that." 

"  I  meant  what  I  said  most  honestly,  and 
therefore  said  it  bluntly — " 

"I  believe  you,  1  believe  you,"  said  Sir 
Robert  heartily,  offering  his  hand. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  pilot,  pressing  it 
warmly  and  sincerely. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Sir  Robert,  to  change 
the  subject,  "  how  comes  on  the  new  craft  1 
She  should  be  launched,  according  to  our 
first  calculation,  during  this  month." 

•'  True,  the  month  is  nearly  up,  but  the  hull 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


comes  on  famously ;  a  gang  of  shipwrights 
with  all  their  tools,  could  hardly  have  done 
better  than  these  raw  hands  have  done." 

"  How  long  before  we  shall  be  able  to  launch 
her,  think  you  ?" 

"  She'll  be  ready  in  a  fortnight." 

"  Heaven  grant  that  she  may  be  able  to  car 
ry  us  to  good  firm  English  ground,  once  more. 
I  never  look  about  me  here  but  this  speck  of  an 
island  seems  to  be  floating  out  to  sea." 

"  It  is  fast  anchored,  sir,  you  may  depend," 
said  the  pilot,  laughing,  "and  will  hardly  fetch 
away  from  here  short  of  a  volcano,  or  an 
earthquake  to  help  it  move." 

"  Most  likely,  most  likely,"  said  Sir  Robert ; 
"  but  it  is  hard  to  divest  one's  imagination  of 
such  fancies  when  there  is  such  an  extent  of 
blue  waters.  Let  us  go  around  to  the  craft." 

"  Very  well,  sir ;  you  have  not  seen  her  for 
some  days." 

"•  What  shall  we  call  the  craft  ?  Some  ap 
propriate  name — what  shall  it  be  ?" 

"The  Northumberland,  junior,"  suggested 
the  pilot,  after  a  few  moments'  thought. 

"  That's  too  long,"  said  Sir  Robert,  counting 
the  letters  upon  his  fingers. 

"  It  is  rather  long." 

"  Try  again,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

"  Well,"  said  the  pilot,  musing,  "  how  do 
you  like  The  Islander." 

"  Pretty  good,  but  not  just  the  thing,"  said 
Sir  Robert,  pausing  to  reflect  for  a  moment, 
and  then  said :  "  What  think  you  now  of  The 
Substitute  ?  Short  and  pithy,  eh  ?  Easily 
called,  and  expressive." 

"  Good,"  said  the  pilot,  repeating  the  name 
several  times  to  himself,  "  very  good." 

"  It  tells  half  the  story  of  our  troubles  at 
once ;  eh,  Mr.  Pilot  ?" 

"  A  better  name  could  not  be  possibly  con 
ceived,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  the  Substitute  it  shall  be,"  said  Sir 
Robert,  as  they  turned  an  angle  of  the  hill 
side,  and  came  in  view  of  the  busy  crew  em 
ployed  upon  the  new  craft. 

The  sloop  had  indeed  progressed  rapidly, 
and  now,  although  scarcely  six  months  had 
expired  since  they  anchored  the  Northumber 
land  in  the  little  bay,  it  presented  a  most  cred 
itable  completeness  of  hull  and  rigging.  It 
was  almost  a  miracle  to  realize  that  so  trim 
and  perfect  a  little  vessel  had  grown  up  under 
those  inexperienced  hands  in  so  short  a  peri 


od,  and  was  an  evidence  of  what  industry  and 
perseverance  will  accomplish.  Of  course,  the 
men  had  worked  at  much  disadvantage  in 
many  respects,  but  what  they  lacked  in  con 
veniences,  they  more  than  made  up  for  in 
zeal.  Besides  which,  they  found  much  of  the 
material  which  it  was  necessary  for  them  to 
use,  already  prepared  to  their  hands,  inasmuch 
as  it  was  applied  to  the  same  use  and  parts 
it  had  filled  in  the  larger  vessel,  its  dimensions 
only  being  so  reduced  as  to  correspond  with 
the  size  and  requisites  of  the  new  craft. 

The  whole  number  of  souls  saved  from  the 
fearful  wreck  of  the  first  night  after  they  had 
left  port,  numbered  but  fifteen,  including  Sir 
Robert  and  the  pilot.  It  was  calculated  to  ar 
range  the  Substitute  so  that  she  should  afford 
ample  and  commodious  accommodations  for 
these,  and  also  to  carry  sufficient  provisions 
to  serve  them  bountifully,  even  if  their  voy 
age  to  England  should  prove  a  long  one. — 
The  original  provisions  of  the  ship  were  near 
ly  all  exhausted,  though  such  as  could  be  kept 
had  been  preserved,  as  better  suited  for  sea 
service  than  anything  they  could  prepare  on 
the  island.  But  the  place  of  those  provisions, 
that  generally  form  a  ship's  outfit,  had  been 
well  supplied  by  the  party  that  had  been  se 
lected  for  that  purpose.  The  sea  bread, 
especially,  became  a  great  luxury,  and  was 
dealt  out  most  sparingly,  that  some  might  be 
reserved  for  the  coming  voyage.  But  the 
crew  hardly  required  or  coveted  it,  having 
such  abundance  of  fried  plantains,  kid's  flesh 
and  young  deer,  with  turtle  meat  and  many 
green  vegetables,  and  already  had  they  be 
come  adepts  .in  making  what  has  in  modern 
times  become  so  popular,  turtle  soup. 

The  mainmast  of  the  ship  served  for  the 
same  purpose  in  the  sloop,  with  much  trim 
ming  and  patient  cutting  down,  while  the 
Northumberland's  bowsprit,  with  equal  labor 
expended  upon  it,  answered  a  like  purpose  on 
board  the  Substitute.  As  to  sails,  there  were 
a  plenty  of  spare  ones,  new  and  of  the  best 
sort,  as  well  as  ample  ropes  and  cordage  of  all 
kinds  ready  to  their  very  hands,  taken  from 
the  supply  that  tho  ship  had  carried.  So 
that,  in  fact,  when  with  reiterated  shouts  of 
joy,  they  launched  the  Substitute,  and  slie 
glided  into  the  element  that  was  to  be  her  fu 
ture  home,  she  was  in  reality  very  well  fitted 
and  found  in  every  respect,  even  for  such  a 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


voyage  as  Sir  Robert  and  his  companions  con 
templated  to  make  in  her  across  the  ocean. 

The  ecstacy  of  the  crew  knew  no  bounds 
when  the  sloop  was  once  finally  afloat ;  they 
acted  like  children  as  they  gazed  upon  the 
work  of  their  own  hands,  and  Jack  Spencer 
declared,  with  a  hitch  at  his  pants,  that: 

"  It  is  worth  bein'  cast  away,  anyhow,  to 
see  such  a  jolly  sight  as  that !" 

"  My  hies,  how  square  she  sits,"  cried  a 
foremast  hand,  in  raptures. 

"  With  her  draft  a  little  abaft  the  beam," 
suggested  the  pilot,  who  stood  among  them, 
and  who  designed  this  point  in  the  sloop,  as 
one  of  no  little  beauty  and  utility  in  sailing. 

"  Yes,  your  honor,"  said  the  foremastman, 
"  and  just  enough  rake  in  her  mast  to  match." 

"  She  floats  like  a  swan,"  said  Sir  Robert, 
with  no  less  appreciation,  but  less  nautical  taste. 

Nearly  everything  was  launched  in  the  sloop 
from  the  ways  where  she  was  built,  and  as 
she  glided  off,  she  was  almost  ready  to  hoist 
her  mainsail  and  jib,  and  fill  away  on  her 
course. 

And  now — how  natural  it  was — that,  when 
all  was  prepared,  when  the  last  boat  came  off 
from  the  shore  and  everything  was  on  board, 
they  should  look  back  upon  the  friendly  shel 
ter  they  had  so  long  enjoyed,  this  garden  of 
the  ocean,  this  oasis  in  the  desert  of  waters, 
with  silent,  but  sincere  regret  at  the  parting. 
Sir  Robert  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  to 
himself,  that  he  felt  very  sad,  and  many  of 
the  rough  tars  dropped  a  tear  on  the  forecastle, 
as  they  turned  away  from  the  solitary  but 
friendly  island.  Even  the  kids  and  other 
animals  came  down  to  the  shore,  as  the  main 
sail  was  set,  seeming  to  wish  them  a  hearty 
farewell,  and  the  few  goats,  that  had  been  do 
mesticated  about  their  immediate  dwellings, 
now  came  together  towards  the  shore,  and 
bleated  after  those  who  had  kindly  fed  and 
petted  them  so  long  ! 

"  There  is  more  true  humanity  there,"  said 
Sir  Robert,  pointing  at  the  sight  on  the  shore, 
as  the  pilot  and  himself  stood  upon  the  deck 
together,  "  than  one  often  meets  among  hu 
man  beings." 

"  It  is  a  remarkable  scene,  indeed,"  said  the 
young  pilot,  as  the  sails  began  slowly  to  fill. 
and  the  hull,  feeling  the  impetus  thus  given, 
fell  gracefully  into  her  course  to  the  north 
west. 


"Farewell,"  said  Sir  Robert,  leaning  over 
the  taffrail,  and  gazing  back,  "  thou  hast  been 
a  friendly  spot  to  us." 

Remarkably  fine  weather  accompanied  the 
sloop  on  her  course  for  many  days,  and  for 
tune  seemed  to  have  .taken  them  under  her 
peculiar  care  and  favor,  until,  according  to 
their  reckoning,  the  Substitute  was  some  five 
days'  sail  from  the  English  Channel.  It  was 
just  nightfall,  when  the  pilot  gave  the  order 
to  get  in  the  sails,  for  his  experienced  eye  fore 
saw  heavy  weather  brewing,  and  the  sun, 
which  had  gone  down  like  a  ball  of  fire,  look 
ed  to  the  seamen's  eye  as  if  inflamed. 

Hardly  had  everything  been  properly  secur 
ed  on  board  the  Substitute,  before  the  gale 
was  upon  them.  It  was  with  sorrowful  faces 
that  the  crew  saw  the  head  of  their  craft  turn 
ed  to  the  west,  before  the  gale,  and  noted  the 
lightning-like  speed  with  which  she  ploughed 
her  course  away  from  the  homes  they  had 
hoped  so  soon  to  see.  But  it  was  their  only 
hope,  and  thus  they  stood  before  the  gale  for 
several  days,  and  it  seemed  to  be  sweeping 
them  across  the  ocean.  The  sloop  was  most 
weatherly,  but  beyond  control  in  such  a  gale 
as  this,  though  all  were  safe,  and  they  felt  lit 
tle  fear  of  immediate  danger,  but  sad  enough 
when  they  realized  how  long  it  would  require 
to  gain  once  more  this  lost  ground. 

On  the  morning  of  the  eighth  day,  the  sun 
rose  clear  and  bright,  the  storm  was  over,  but 
alas !  those  on  board  the  Substitute  were 
thousands  of  miles  from  their  native  land.  An 
observation  soon  showed  them  that  they  were 
in  the  latitude  of  St.  Domingo,  and  indeed 
they  made  out  one  or  two  of  the  West  India 
isles.  This  enabled  them  more  correctly  once 
more  to  lay  their  course,  and,  thankful  for 
their  deliverance  from  the  gale,  the  canvass 
was  again  spread. 

These  were  times  when  the  honest  trader 
scarcely  dared  to  enter  the  low  latitudes  at  all, 
or  if  he  did  so,  every  precaution  was  adopted 
to  avoid  meeting  with  the  remorseless  Free 
booters,  that  then  flooded  the  isles  and  chan 
nels  of  the  Spanish  Indies,  as  they  were  then 
called ;  and  these  seas  were  the  theatre  of  the 
most  bloody  exploits  that  redden  the  pages  of 
history.  Though  the  pirates  warred  mainly 
against  the  Spaniards,  to  whose  oppression 
they  owed  their  origin,  still  they  had  become 
hardened  by  bloodshed  and  booty,  and  wer« 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


47 


net  scrupulous  as  to  what  flag  a  rich  cargo 
sailed  under. 

In  such  times  as  these,  and  in  such  a  locali 
ty  as  the  Substitute  was  now  in,  it  will  not  be 
wondered  at  that  the  pilot  and  Sir  Robert  felt 
not  a  little  anxiety,  when  they  discovered  a 
sharp,  rakish  craft  standing  out  from  the  gulf 
stream  to  the  north  of  Cuba,  near  where  they 
had  found  themselves  on  the  storm's  clearing 
up.  The  Substitute  was  rather  a  fast  sailer, 
but  she  could  not  compete  with  the  rover,  for 
such  his  black  flag  at  once  bespoke  him,  and 
though  by  the  superior  manoeuvres  of  the 
pilot  much  time  was  gained,  yet  the  stranger 
neared  them  fast. 

The  arms  on  board  the  sloop  were  of  no  or 
dinary  character.  In  those  days,  such  a  ship 
as  the  Northumberland  did  not  sail  without  a 
heavy  arm  chest,  and  this,  well  stored  with 
weapons  and  ammunition,  had  been  carefully 
transported  on  board  the  sloop.  It  was  very 
evident  to  Sir  Robert  and  the  pilot  that  a  col 
lision  must  take  place  between  themselves  and 
the  rover,  and,  therefore,  the  arms  were  dealt 
out,  giving  to  each  man  a  boarding  cutlass 
and  a  brace  of  pistols,  besides  to  several  who 
were  known  to  be  good  shots,  a  gun  each. 

In  the  meantime,  the  pirate  was  overhaul 
ing  them  length  after  length  ;  but,  in  order  to 
gain  time,  the  pilot  had  put  the  sloop  before  the 
wind,  and  thus  the  chase  was  a  stern  one,  and 
gave  the  people  of  the  Substitute  ample  time 
to  prepare.  Already  were  the  two  vessels 
sufficiently  near  to  discern  the  people  upon  the 
decks  of  either.  That  of  the  rover  was  full, 
or  nearly  so,  of  blood-thirsty  looking  men,  of 
all  nations  and  appearances.  On  they  came, 
until  at  last  was  heard  a  coarse  hail  across  the 
intervening  water,  from  the  pirate's  quarter 
deck. 

"  Heave  to,  or  I'll  fire  into  you!"  growled  a 
hoarse  voice  through  a  trumpet. 

"  We'll  see,"  said  Sir  Robert,  levelling  a 
gun,  and  being  an  excellent  shot,  almost  with 
the  flash  of  his  weapon  the  commander  of  the 
rover's  craft,  who  had  hailed  them  from  the 
shrouds  of  his  vessel,  fell  a  corpse  into  the 
sea ! 

Doubly  enraged  at  this,  the  pirates  swung 
their  craft  alongside  of  the  Substitute,  grap 
pled  with  her  at  the  bows,  and  the  two  crafts,, 
nearly  of  a  size,  swung  round  with  the  cur 
rent  together. 


"  Boarders  away !"  shouted  a  stern  voice  on 
board  the  rover,  at  this  moment. 

"  Follow  me,  boys !"  said  the  pilot,  rushing 
forward  with  Sir  Robert,  cutlass  in  hand. 

The  pirates  numbered  some  forty  men,  all 
told  ;  but  they  were  fighting  for  booty,  while 
those  on  board  the  Substitute  were  struggling 
for  their  lives.  On  came  the  rovers  to  the 
bow  of  the  sloop,  when  they  were  met  by  Sir 
Robert  and  the  pilot  with  their  crew  in  a  hand 
to  hand  conflict.  In  some  respects,  those  on 
board  of  the  Substitute  had  the  advantage ; 
they  were  all  armed  alike,  and  with  a  weapon 
that  every  English  sailor  of  those  days  knew 
how  to  wield,  while  their  enemies  had  armed 
themselves  with  such  weapons  as  chance  had 
afforded  them — some  only  with  guns,  others 
hatchets,  and  a  few  with  swords  and  pistols, 
besides  which,  the  pirates  had  lost  their  com 
mander  at  the  onset,  though  he  who  led  on  the 
boarding  party  seemed  a  master  spirit  and 
held  his  men  in  awe  and  obedience. 

"  Steady,  boys,  steady,"  said  the  pilot, 
"  wait  till  they  are  close  on  you,  and  fire  low." 

The  men  understood  the  meaning  of  the 
order  and  obeyed  it. 

Sir  Robert,  with  his  herculean  strength, 
was  dealing  death  at  the  heel  of  the  bowsprit 
to  every  man  that  came  over  the  bows  of  the 
sloop,  at  the  spot  where  he  stood.  He  had 
chosen  a  partially  sheltered  point,  where  he 
was  not  seen,  and  as  each  man  stepped  over 
the  bulwark  upon  the  deck,  he  cut  him  down ; 
nor  was  the  trick  discovered  until  nine  of  the 
pirates  lay  dead  upon  the  forecastle,  from  the 
stroke  of  his  cutlass.  In  the  meantime,  the 
pilot  and  the  men  were  doing  good  execution 
at  anothej  point  on  the  bow,  where  the  rovers 
were  attempting  to  board.  Only  two  of  the 
Substitute's  people  had  been  shot,  while  four 
teen  of  the  rovers  were  already  laid  low,  when 
the  leader  of  the  boarding  party  discovered 
the  manner  in  which  he  was  losing  his  men 
by  the  trick  Sir  Robert  was  playing  him,  and 
gave  the  signal  of  recall. 

The  pirates  were  enraged  beyond  all  con 
trol,  to  think  that  so  many  of  their  number 
had  been  killed,  and  that  they  should  meet 
with  such  determined  resistance  from  so  small 
a  number  of  men.  The  truth  was,  the  people 
of  the  Substitute  were  under  strict  discipline, 
and  obeyed  implicitly  every  order^nd,  having 
been  so  long  together,  acted  in  perfect  concert. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


One  poor  fellow,  Jack  Spencer,  who  was  shot 
in  the  leg  after  doing  good  execution  upon  the 
rovers,  was  now  unable  to  stand,  and  drawing 
his  body  under  the  lee  of  the  bulwark,  he  call 
ed  on  his  messmates  to  pass  him  their  pistols, 
which  he  kept  loaded  for  them,  putting  two 
bullets  into  each,  by  way  of  interest  as  he 
said,  for  the  wound  he'd  got. 

It  was  no  trifling  assistance  to  the  crew,,  to 
be  supplied  with  loaded  weapons  as  quick  as 
they  had  discharged  those  they  held.  It  was 
equal  to  adding  six  or  eight  efficient  men  to 
their  number,  and  the  pilot,  seeing  how  well 
this  operated,  had  a  dozen  extra  pistols  and 
plenty  of  ammunition  handed  out  to  Jack  Spen 
cer,  that  he  might  be  able  to  give  them  loaded 
arms  as  fast  as  they  called  for  them.  Neither 
the  pirate  nor  those  on  board  the  Substitute 
had  any  cannon — the  battle  was  entirely  car 
ried  on  with  small  arms  by  both  parties. 

"  Jack,"  said  the  pilot,  as  he  came  to  renew 
his  pistols,  both  of  which  he  had  discharged 
with  good  effect,  "  you  are  worth  a  dozen  of 
those  I  rascals  still,  though  you  are  shot  so 
badly." 

"  Never  mind  me,  your  honor."  said  Jack, 
"  just  give  'em  cold  lead  to  pay  for  it — that's 
all." 

There  was  a  pause  now  in  the  conflict ;  the 
pirates,  feeling  the  effect  of  the  deadly  aim  of 
Sir  Robert  and  the  pilot,  had  shrunk  back  to 
shelter,  for  they  had  suffered  terribly.  But 
those  on  board  the  Substitute  knew  very  well 
that  this  was  only  a  temporary  lull  in  the 
fight,  and  that  it  would  soon  be  renewed  with 
increased  vigor.  And  this  was  the  case,  for 
the  pirates,  seemingly  resolved  upon  a  desper 
ate  sally,  came  in  large  numbers  and  together. 
This  should  have  been  their  policy  in  the  first 
place.  They  now  placed  the  Substitute's  peo 
ple  at  fault,  and  came  down  upon  the  deck  a 
half-dozen*  at  a  time.  The  leader  of  the 
boarders  appeared  to  be  carried  away  with 
madness,  and  led  on  his  men  in  the  most  reck 
less  manner,  his  clear,  stern  voice  ringing 
loudly  above  the  din  of  the  fight. 

Of  course,  the  crew  of  the  Substitute  were 
obliged  to  yield  before  such  overwhelming 
numbers,  and  were  already  driven  abaft  the 
main  hatch,  when  Sir  Robert  found  himself 
nearly  confronted  by  the  leader  of  the  board 
ers.  At  first  he  started  back  with  sur 
prise,  and  lowered  the  point  of  his  weapon ;  he 


was  certain  that  he  knew  that  face,  and  the 
voice  too  was  not  unfamiliar  to  his  ear,  as  the 
orders  were  issued  to  his  followers.  The 
pause  was  but  for  one  moment,  and  the  next 
all  was  forgotten,  and  the  leader  and  Sir  Rob 
ert  crossed  swords.  A.  few  strokes  served  to 
show  that  both  were  masters  of  the  weapon 
they  held,  but  Sir  Robert's  herculean  strength 
seemed  to  place  the  skill  of  the  other  at  fault  ; 
a  rapid  pass,  following  up  a  feint  made  in  an 
other  quarter,  cut  the  cords  of  the  rover's 
left  wrist  terribly,  and  maddened  him  so,  that 
before  Sir  Robert  could  recover,  he  dashed  his 
sword  from  him  with  one  skilful  blow.  Sir 
Robert  was  now  completely  disarmed,  but  his 
presence  of  mind  did  not  desert  him,  for  he 
seized  the  rover  about  his  body,  just  below  the 
waist,  before  the  latter  could  understand  the 
attack,  and,  with  his  extraordinary  muscular 
power,  bore  him  to  the  side  and  threw  him 
into  the  sea. 

It  was  all  the  work  of  an  instant  of  time, 
and  Sir  Robert  sprang,  with  a  cutlass  caught 
up  from  the  deck,  once  more  upon  the  assail 
ants.  His  arm  swept  like  a  scythe  among 
them,  and  already  they  began  to  waver,  hav 
ing  lost  the  directing  orders  of  him  that  Sir 
Robert  had  cast  into  the  sea.  It  was  soon 
whispered  around  among  them  that  he  was 
overboard,  and  that  they  must  attempt  his  res 
cue.  They  began  to  fall  back  once  more,  and 
as  they  did  so,  they  passed  again  within  range 
of  Jack  Spencer's  arm,  who  had  a  dozen  pistols 
loaded  by  his  side.  These  he  coolly  deliver 
ed  one  by  one  upon  the  rovers,  making  terri 
ble  havoc,  for  he  was  within  six  feet  of  the 
most  of  them  as  he  fired.  The  effect  was 
electric.  The  rovers  could  stand  this  cross 
fire  no  longer,  and  the  few  of  them  that  were 
able,  retreated  most  precipitately  to  the  deck 
of  their  own  vessel. 

There  was  now  probably  not  a  dozen  ef 
fective  men  among  the  pirates,  so  severely 
had  they  been  disabled  ;  in  the  first  place  by 
Sir  Robert's  trick,  which  cost  them  ten  of 
their  number  in  some  three  or  four  minutes  of 
time,  and  then  by  Jack  Spencer's  raking  fire 
upon  them,  as  they  fell  back  after  the  loss  of 
the  second  officer,  who  had  led  them  on. — 
They  were  completely  overcome  and  beaten, 
and  had  Sir  Robert  and  the  pilot  chosen,  they 
might  have  gone  on  board  and  taken  the  pi 
ratical  craft.  But  many  of  the  people  of  the 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


Substitute  were  severely  wounded,  and  the 
pilot  gave  orders  for  a  couple  of  men  to  go 
forward  and  cut  the  grapnels  that  bound 
the  vessels  together  at  the  bow.  This  was 
quickly  done,  and  the  two  crafts  swung  clear 
of  each  other. 

The  pirates  were  but  too  happy  to  be  left 
alone,  to  attempt  any  pursuit  of  the  Substitute, 
and  before  night-fall  the  two  vessels  were  far 
out  of  sight  from  each  other. 

Doubtless  ere  this,  the  reader  has  surmised 
that  the  two  persons  described  in  the  early 
part  of  this  story,  and  who  befriended  the  poor 
girl  Edith,  bringing  her  with  so  much  trouble 
from  the  tap  room  in  St.  Giles,  London,  were 
Sir  Robert  Brompton  and  the  pilot  Walter 
Manning* 

The  Substitute  at  last  brought  them  safe  to 
England,  and  the  arrival  of  Sir  Robert  proved 
to  be  most  opportune,  as  it  regarded  his  pecuni 
ary  interests,  for  he  found  that  his  faithful 
agent  and  friend,  Frederick  Howard,  had  sud 
denly  died,  a  few  weeks  previous,  of  a  violent 
attack  of  brain  fever,  leaving  Sir  Robert's  af 
fairs  in  the  most  exposed  and  critical  situation, 
and  yet,  as  Sir  Robert  himself  observed,  in  as 
good  shape  as  could  be  expected  under  the 
circumstances.  Another  reason  why  Sir 
Robert's  arrival  at  this  time  was  most  oppor 
tune,  was  the  fact  that  it  had  been  generally 
believed  in  England,  owing  to  his  long  absence 
and  loss  on  the  island,  that  he  had  been 
drowned  at  sea,  and  in  a  few  weeks  more,  had 
he  not  appeared  to  claim  his  property,  the 
courts  under  the  law  would  have  taken  it  in 
charge,  and  have  proceeded  to  administer  upon 
it  accordingly. 

''Report  had  got  me  dead  and  buried,  or 
rather  eaten  up  by  the  fishes,  Walter." 

"  And  your  heirs  at  law;  Sir  Robert,  were 
perfectly  willing  to  submit  to  the  will  of  Prov 
idence." 

"  O,  yes,  particularly,  as  in  my  case,  those 
heirs  at  law  were  embraced  in  the  govern 
ment." 

"Have  you  none  of  sufficient  nearness 
in  blood  to  have  claimed  to  be  your  heir  ?" 
asked  Walter. 

"  None." 

"  That  is  odd." 

"  I  am  a  lone  man,  Walter." 

'*  But  not  withouf  many  warm  friends,  Sir 
Robert,"  said  Walter. 
4 


"  Bah  !  sunshine  friends,  fair-weather  sym 
pathizers  ;  they  would  fade  away  like  a  Janu 
ary  thaw,  if  1  were  suddenly  to  become  poor. 
But  I  care  not  for  them.  I  will  fix  my  own 
affairs  now." 

"  You  are  more  than  half  right,  Sir  Rob 
ert." 

All  these  matters  were  duly  arranged,  and 
Sir  Robert  and  Walter  settled  down  in  domes 
tic  life  at  home. 

Walter  Manning  observed  immediately  after 
their  arrival  that  there  was  something  upon 
Sir  Robert's  mind  that  troubled  him  greatly — 
a  subject,  however,  to  which  Walter, never 
referred,  nor  did  Sir  Robert  ever  allude  to  the 
matter,  but  kept 'it  most  sacredly  within  his 
own  breast.  Fearing  to  annoy  or  tease  him  by 
referring  to  the  matter,  Walter  remained  quiet, 
though  he  could  not  help  often  speculating  in 
his  own  mind  upon  its  cause.  Sometimes  he 
thought  that  Sir  Robert  must  play,  and  lose 
largely,  and  that  his  loss  perhaps  annoyed  him ; 
bu^yet  as  he  was  never  short  of  money,  but 
operated  whenever  he  had  occasion  to  do  so  free 
ly,  and  at  will,  commanding  ample  resources, 
this  supposition  did  not  seem  reasonable. 

Not  un frequently  Sir  Robert  Brompton 
would  be  absent  for  days  at  a  time,  and  no  one 
of  the  family  knew  where  he  was,  and  after 
such  periods  of  absence  he  would  return  quite 
exhausted  and  worn  out  from  apparent  exposure 
and  physical  exertions,  and  more  gloomy  and 
depressed  than  he  had  been  before.  But  Wal 
ter  Manning  reasoned  that  if  he  chose  to  keep 
his  business  a  secret,  he  had  a  perfect  right  to 
do  so,  nor  was  it  his  part  to  be  inquisitive  ia 
his  patron's  private  affairs;  true,  he  would  like 
to  have  administered  to  his  relief  if  possible, 
but  this,  perhaps,  might  not  be. 

Walter  Manning  in  the  meantime  pursued 
his  studies  with  unremitting  diligence,  and 
read  law  with  an  eminent  barrister  of  Londen, 
under  the  liberal  patronage  of  his  friend  Sir 
Robert,  though  the  gems  they  had  brought  from 
the  lone  island  had  produced  him  ample  means 
for  support,  a  sum  exceeding  forty  thousand 
pounds.  Five  years  passed  on  thus,  until  tha 
period  when  we  have  introduced  the  readers 
to  these  pages  in  one  of  the  tap  rooms  of 
London. 

And  now  we  must  again  return  to  the  gen 
tle  Edith  and  her  history,  at  a  most  important 
period  to  her. 


CHAPTER 


THE  BURGLARY. 


"  Outlaw.  Stand,  sir,  and  throw  us  that  you  have  about  you." 

"  Val.  Ruffians,  forego  that  rude,  uncivil  touch." — Two  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


HAVING  brought  the  reader  once  more  safe 
ly  to  London,  after  a  long  voyage  and  many 
adventures,  let  us  introduce  him  again  to  the 
household  of  Sir  Robert  Brompton,  where 
Edith  is  sharing  the  kind  solicitude  of  the 
good  Mrs.  Marlow,  and  where  Sir  Robert  and 
Walter  Manning  are  enjoying  a  quiet  domes* 
tic  happiness.  The  observant  reader  will  un 
derstand  that  the  scenes  which  we  have  de 
picted  in  the  last  four  chapters,  were  of  prior 
occurrence  to  the  opening  scenes  of  our  story, 
and  we  may  yet,  in  the  relation  of  the  varied 
scenes  that  we  portray,  go  back  still  farther, 
to  lay  before  him  such  phases  of  our  plot  as 
shall  best  entertain  and  interest  him. 

Sir  Robert  Brompton's  household  consisted 
of  himself,  Walter,  Edith,  Mrs.  Marlow,  and 
four  servantp  of  each  sex.  Sir  Robert  had  em 
ployed  Mrs.  Marlow  since  his  return  from 
India,  and  found  in  her  just  such  a  person  as 
his  necessities  required.  Edith  during  the 
day  was  constantly  engaged  with  her  masters, 
but  the  evening  was  devoted  to  cheerful  fire 
side  associations,  when  Walter  would  read 
aloud  from  some  interesting  book,  or  they 
would  converse  or  play  some  simple  game 
together,  even  Sir  Robert  joining  with  avidity 
in  the  performance. 

A  twelvemonth  of  this  sort  of  life,  and  the 


advantages  of  the  best  instructors,  had  vastly 
improved  Edith,  who  now  bore  no  perceptible 
traces  of  her  former  life.  Her  manners  had 
gradually  become  polished  and  easy,  her  Ian* 
guage,  under  the  able  instructers  her  patron 
provided,  was  elegant  and  correct,  and  every 
evidence  of  her  taste  gave  token  of  delicacy 
and  refinement.  The  life  of  ease  and  health* 
ful  exercise  which  she  now  enjoyed,  had  also 
much  changed  her  in  person.  She  was  taller, 
and  her  figure  was  more  full  and  rounded  in 
outline,  than  when  we  first  met  her.  The 
natural  color  of  her  cheek,  which  was  fitful 
before,  had  now  become  permanent,  giving  a 
rose-like  freshness  to  her  fair  complexion^ 
while  the  sweet  influence  of  intelligence  and 
mental  culture  upon  the  physiognomy,  lighted 
up  her  already  marked  beauty  of  feature. 
This  decided  change  in  his  protegee  seemed 
to  please  and  gratify  Sir  Robert  not  a  Iittle5 
nor  was  Walter  Manning  an  unobservant  wit 
ness.  Sir  Robert  doted  upon  her  as  though 
she  had  been  his  own  child,  Walter  loved  her 
as  a  sister. 

Associates  of  her  own  age  and  sex  were 
found  for  Edith,  and  of  a  class  to  add  to  her 
improvement  by  their  intimacy  and  companion- 
ship,  and  the  poor  orphan  who  had  so  lately 
performed  the  most  menial  offices  of  a  vulgar 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


51 


tap-room,  with  thieves  and  pickpockets  for  its 
frequenters,  now  found  herself  happy,  and 
receiving  all  the  comfort  and  consideration  of 
the  most  favored  child  of  fortune.  She  her 
self  was  not  unmindful  of  the  contrast  that 
frequently  presented  itself  to  her  mind,  and 
its  realization  would  often  puzzle  her.  But  she 
was  very  happy  and  thankful  to  those  who 
had  befriended  her.  She  had  learned  to  look 
for  the  return  of  Sir  Robert  whenever  he  was 
absent,  with  the  utmost  impatience  and  love, 
and  when  he  did  come  from  his  pleasure  or 
business  engagements  in  town,  she  received 
him  always  with  such  pure,  unaffected  glad 
ness  of  heart,  that  its  sincerity  and  truth  even 
with  Sir  Robert's  jealous  and  sensitive  dispo 
sition,  were  not  to  be  misconstrued  or  doubt 
ed. 

Sir  Robert  was  still  very  sensitive  in  rela 
tion  to  his  personal  appearance ;  and  his  lame 
ness,  as  well  as  the  marks  upon  his  face,  left 
by  the  sickness  he  had  experienced  in  India, 
were  both  sources  of  constant  chagrin  to  his 
over-sensitive  mind  ;  but  he  was  happy  in  be 
lieving  that  these  external  objects  had  no 
weight  with  such  an  affection  as  Edith  bore 
him,  and  once  in  his  life  he  felt  assured  that 
he  was  loved  for  himself  alone,  sincerely  lov 
ed  by  a  pure  and7  innocent  creature  to  whom 
he  became  hourly  more  devoted  and  attached. 
His  heart  had  yearned  for  some  such  affection 
as  he  now  enjoyed,  for  many  years,  long  be 
fore  he  was  married,  ay,  and  when  he  was 
married,  too:  for  his  jealousy  then  often  ren 
dered  him  most  miserable.  But  now  his  for 
tune  seemed  changed — the  sunny  side  of  the 
picture  presented  itself  to  his  view,  and  Sir 
Robert  Brompton  was  comparatively  a  happy 
man  ;  no  one  is  wholly  so. 

Yet  it  was  a  strange  sight  to  see  them 
together,  Sir  Robert  with  his  coarsej  pitted 
face,  and  limping  gait,  contrasted  with  Edith's 
fair  complexion  and  faultless  form.  Still,  as 
she  hung  upon  his  arm  and  looked  up  into  his 
face  to  see  as  well  as  hear  him  speak,  the  most 
casual  observer  would  have  marked  the  depth 
and  sincerity  of  the  love  that  beamed  from 
her  large,  plaintive,  blue  eyes.  It  acted  like 
a  charm  upon  Sir  Robert. 

"  Do  you  get  on  pleasantly  with  your  in- 
structers,  Edith  ?''  he  asked,  kissing  her  fair 
forehead  as  she  leaned  thus  affectionately  upon 
him. 


"  O  yes,  Sir  Robert,  they  are  very  atten 
tive,"  she  replied,  "  and  strive  to  teach  me 
everything." 

"And  your  music?"  continued  Sir  Robert, 
toying  with  her  soft  and  luxuriant  hair. 

"  Is  so  delightful." 

"  You  really  like  it  then,  Edith  ?"  asked 
her  patron,  with  evident  satisfaction. 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  she  replied,  earnestly.  "  I 
practise  all  the  time  you  are  away." 

"  That  is  right,  Edith.  I  would  have  you 
improve  in  all  things,  and  become  as  accom 
plished  as  the  proudest  lady  in  London. 
Come,  Edith,  will  you  try  for  this  ?" 

"  O,  indeed  I  will,  for  your  sake,  who  have 
been  so  kind  to  me,  if  not  for  my  own.  It  W 
my  greatest  pleasure  to  do  anything  that 
pleases  you,  Sir  Robert." 

"  Does  Mrs.  Marlow  strive  to  make  you 
happy,  Edith?" 

"  She  is  only  too  good,  Sir  Robert,  and  is 
never  tired  of  serving  me." 

"  It  is  well ;  that  shall  be  her  constant  du 
ty,"  he  replied. 

"  Would  that  there  was  some  way  for  me 
to  repay  all  this  kindness." 

"  You  are  a  dear  good  girl,  Edith,"  said 
her  protector,  "  and  repay  me,  doubly  repay 
me,  every  day.  To-morrow  will  be  Christ- 
mas,  and  though  I  shall  then  have  a  token  for 
you.of  my  own  choosing,  yet  I  know  very 
well  that  a  young  lady  can  suit  her  own  tasto 
so  much  better  than  an  old  fellow  like  me  can 
do  for  her,  that  I  want  you  to  go  out  and 
choose  for  yourself  this  afternoon,  and  here  is 
a  purse  for  you  to  spend  for  the  holidays." 

"  You  are  too  generous  with  me,  dear  Sir 
Robert,"  said  Edith,  hesitating  to  receive  the 
money.  "  Why,  I  have  over  twenty  pounds 
in  my  purse  from  your  last  present,  which 
I  have  not  yet  expended,  and  it  will  more, 
much  more  than  serve  my  wishes." 

"Nay,  Edith,  take  it,  and  use  it  as  you 
will.  You  know  I  have  often  told  you  that  I 
have  enough  to  supply  the  most  extravagant 
desires,  and  it  pleases  me  to  have  you  enjoy 
it." 

"Thank  you  kindly,  Sir  Robert,"  said 
Edith.  "  I  can  only  thank  you." 

Edith  went  to  her  chamber  to  dress  for  tbe 
afternoon,  and  to  calculate  what  she  should 
purchase  for  the  kind  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Mar- 
low,  and  what  for  Jane  and  Mary  and  the  rest 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


of  the  servants,  all  of  whom  were  so  kind  to 
their  dear  young  lady,  as  they  always  called 
her.  Edith  really  loved  them  in  return  for 
their  kindness  and  assiduity.  Her  remarkable 
change  of  life  made  no  difference  in  her  feel 
ings  :  she  was  the  same  simple  and  true- 
hearted  girl  as  before  her  elevation.  Though 
with  half  a  dozen  persons  at  her  beck  and 
call,  she  assumed  no  airs  of  petty  authority, 
and  what  she  directed,  was  so  done  that  it 
seemed  a  privilege  to  obey  her,  and  thus  she 
fell  naturally  into  her  position,  well  gracing  it. 

It  was  a  cold  and  cheerless  night  in  Decem- 
/  her,  heavy  clouds  coursed  over  the  sky  and 
obscured  even  the  pale  light  of  the  stars,  for 
the  moon  had  long  since  gone  down.  There 
was  a  chilly,  biting  frost  in  the  air,  as  though 
the  atmosphere  were  out  of  humor,  and  the 
clock  even,  which  had  just  struck  two,  did  it 
in  a  most  doleful  tone.  Shadows  were  deep 
and  dark  over  the  great  city,  and  none  were 
abroad  save  the  thickly  muffled  watchmen, 
and  they  kept  so  close  in  each  friendly  shelter 
that  offered,  you  would  have  thought  no  one 
was  stirring  at  ah1.  The  city  had  wrapped  its 
mantle  of  night  about  it,  and  lay  down  to 
sleep,  and  though  there  was  no  motion,  no 
bustle  now,  yet  its  great  heart  of  humanity 
throbbed  on,  and  its  pulses  beat  as  quickly  as 
ever ;  the  body  only  slumbered. 

At  this  lone  hour,  fitting  time  for  deeds  of 
darkness,  two  men  and  a  boy  crept  stealthily 
one  after  the  other,  over  the  high  wooden  fence 
that  enclosed  the  yard  in  the  rear  of  Sir  Rob 
ert  Brompton's  house.  Had  they  been  three 
cats  instead  of  three  human  beings,  they  could 
scarcely  have  accomplished  this  feat  more 
quietly,  or  with  more  facility.  The  one  who 
first  went  over  placed  a  short  hand  screw  in 
the  fence,  evidently  made  for  the  purpose, 
turning  it  quite  through  to  the  other  side, 
about  one  third  way  up  the  height  of  the  wall, 
at  such  a  distance  from  the  ground  as  to  be  ea 
sily  reached  by  the  foot.  Standing  upon  this 
instrument,  another  one  was  inserted  in  a  like 
manner  above  it,  the  two,  in  connection  with 
the  top  of  the  fence,  thus  forming  an  easy 
pair  of  steps  on  either  side  of  the  wall  to  as 
cend  or  descend  upon. 

With  these  preliminary  arrangements,  the 
three  passed  quietly  over  the  fence  into  the 
yurd  beyond. 

The  boy  was  very  small,  though  by  his  rea 


dy  movements  and  the  easy  manner  in  whic 
he  bestowed  himself,  he  was  evidently  no 
stranger  to  the  part  he  was  expected  to  per 
form.  He  spoke  not  a  word,  though  he  was 
suffering  evidently  from  the  chilly  influences 
of  the  night  air,  and  was  in  fact  very  thinly 
clad,  but  keeping  as  closely  as  possible  to  the 
other  rough  looking  objects  who  were  his  com 
panions,  he  seemed  quietly  to  wait  the  proper 
time  for  him  to  act.  Not  a  word  was  spoken 
by  either  of  them ;  their  greatest  object  seem 
ed  to  be  not  to  make  the  least  noise.  But 
they  had  no  need  of  words,  for  they  seemed 
to  understand  each  other  fully,  proceeding  with 
perfect  intelligence  and  speed,  nor  did  they 
pause  here  even  for  a  single  moment  to  ar 
range  any  matter. 

Once  they  did  pause,  and  drew  close  togeth 
er  as  they  heard  the  growl  of  a  dog. 

"  Curse  it,"  whispered  the  larger  one  of  the 
party,  "you  didn't  say  there  was  any  dog 
here." 

"  Isn't  that  over  the  fence  ?"  asked  the  other, 
listening. 

"  It's  goin'along  the  street,"  whispered  the 
boy,  returning  from  the  fence,  where  he  had 
put  his  ear. 

It  was  so  ;  some  one  passing  was  accompa 
nied  by  a  dog,  whose  instinct  had  detected 
something  wrong  about  the  spot,  and  had  led 
him  to  utter  the  low,  but  deep  growl  peculiar 
to  this  animal  when  he  scents  danger. 

One  of  the  men  now  took  his  station  neai 
the  fence,  at  the  spot  where  they  had  come 
over,  and  from  whence  he  could  not  only  hear 
what  was  going  on  upon  the  opposite  side, 
but  could  also  overlook  the  several  directions 
of  approach  in  the  yard  itself.  This  com 
panion  with  the  boy  immediately  approached  a 
back  door  of  the  house  opening  to  the  south, 
and  at  once  commenced  operations  in  good 
earnest,  to  effect  an  entrance. 

A  sharp  and  peculiarly  shaped  knife  was 
first  introduced  into  the  thinnest  part  of  the 
door,  being  a  lower  pannel;  a  small  hole  being 
thus  formed,  the  burglar  introduced'  a  small 
circular  saw,  so  sharp  and  cunningly  handled 
as  to  cut  its  way  with  scarcely  a  particle  of 
noise.  At  this  the  man  worked  with  the  most 
unyielding  industry  for  nearly  twenty  minutes, 
when  he  was  enabled  to  remove  a  piece  of  the 
pannel,  leaving  an  aperture  of  some  twenty 
inches  in  circumference.  The  boy  had  been 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME, 


53 


a  silent  observer  of  this  operation,  but  as  soon 
as  the  piece  was  removed,  he  at  once  threw  off 
his  cap  and  jacket,  and  placing  his  head  and 
shoulders  within  the  hole,  was  thrust  through 
to  the  other  side  of  the  door  by  his  older  com 
panion,  until  he  had  quite  disappeared. 

"  Be  careful  how  you  move  the  key  and 
bolt,"  whispered  the  man,  placing  his  face  at 
die  hole  through  which  he  had  thus  thrust 
the  boy.  "  Turn  the  key  easy,  and  slip  the 
bolt  lightly.  Don't  be  in  a  hurry  now,  and 
make  a  noise ;  do  you  understand  ?  Do  it 
slowly,  remember  that,  boy,  slow  and  still !" 

"I  knows  how,  hasn't  I  done  it  afore,"  said 
die  boy,  confidently  to  the  other,  as  he  prepar 
ed  to  open  the  door  as  directed,  and  admit  his 
older  companions. 

"  Is  he  in  ?"  asked  the  man  who  had  been 
waiting  at  the  fence  all  the  while,  and  who 
now  came  up  to  the  spot  somewhat  impatient 
ly.  "  I  say  is  he  in  ?" 

"  Yes,  he's  just  gone  in.  Hark !  There 
goes  the  lock,  well  done,  too,"  replied  the 
other,  as  the  key  was  gently  turned  by  the 
boy  on  the  inside,  who  showed  that  he  was 
no  novice  at  the  business. 

u  And  that's  the  bolt,"  said  his  companion, 
as  the  second  fastening  was  quietly  removed 
from  the  eye  by  the  little  adept  within. 

"  That's  a  smart  boy,  Bill ;  he's  worth  his 
weight  in  guineas.  Don't  he  work  like  a 
charm,  eh  1"  said  he  who  had  cut  the  door  and 
put  the  boy  through  it. 

"  Ay ;  he's  well  enough  in  a  small  way" 
whispered  the  other,  jokingly,  "  but  come  on, 
we  must  work  lively,  or  we  shall  have  the 
daylight  upon  us  before  we  have  bagged  the 
game." 

"  My  fingers  itch  to  handle  some  of  that 
rich  plate  they  say  the  old  fellow  brought  with 
him  from  India,"  said  he  who  had  cut  through 
the  pannel." 

"  Open  the  way,  my  little  jewel,"  whisper 
ed  the  larger  of  the  two  to  the  boy. 

"  Is  you  all  ready  ?"  asked  the  boy. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  open  it  quietly." 

IB  the  next  moment  the  door  was  quietly 


opened  by  the  boy  on  the  inside,  and  the  two 
burglars  had  successfully  effected  an  entrance 
into  Sir  Robert's  house. 

Once  on  the  inside,  they  looked  carefully 
about  them,  to  see  the  arrangement  of  the 
house,  peering  along  the  passage  way  or  en 
try,  and  making  out  to  their  satisfaction  which 
was  the  kitchen,  which  the  store  room,  etc. 
They  were  old  hands  at  the  business ;  they  did 
not  dive  at  once  into  a  search,  but  like  skilful 
soldiers,  laid  their  plans  coolly,  and  surveyed 
the  ground  before  they  commenced  the  attack. 
Having  acquainted  themselves  with  the  "  lay 
of  the  land,"  as  one  of  them  remarked,  they 
returned  again  to  the  door  to  see  that  all  was 
clear  for  the  retreat  when  it  was  necessary  to 
do  so. 

"  Boy,"  whispered  one  of  them,  cautious 
ly,  as  they  approached. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  boy,  shrugging  hie 
shoulders  with  the  cold. 

"  Are  you  sleepy,  you  rogue  ?"  asked  one 
of  the  men. 

"  No,  I  ain't  sleepy." 

"  Well,  come  here." 

"Take  this,"  said  the  larger  of  the  two 
men,  handing  the  boy  a  small  silver  whistle ; 
"  and  if  there  is  any  sign  of  discovery,  blow 
it  and  give  us  the  alarm.  Do  you  under 
stand  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy. 

"  No  false  alarms  now,  don't  blow  it  unless 
diere  is  good  reason — remember  that." 

"  And  mind  you  don't  get  to  sleep  now," 
said  the  other. 

Though  the  boy  had  resumed  his  coat  and 
cap,  still  he  was,  as  we  have  said,  very  thinly 
clad  for  the  season,  and  though  uncomplain 
ing,  was  shivering  with  the  cold,  which  the 
last  speaker  observing,  he  took  off  his  own 
outside  garment,  and  threw  it  about  the  child's 
body,  again  repeating  his  instructions  as  to 
watchfulness. 

This  done,  the  burglars  proceeded  to  pros 
ecute  their  designs  on  Sir  Robert's  plate,  each 
one  unloosing  a  bag  that  had  been  tied  about 
his  waist  until  now,  intended  to  hold  their 
plunder. 


CHAPTER    X. 


THE    ABDUCTION. 


Let  us  lift  up  the  curtain,  and  observe 
What  passes  in  that  chamber. 


OPENING  their  dark  lanterns,  the  two  burglars 
who  had  thus  effected  their  entrance  into  the 
house  left  the  boy,  as  we  have  said,  and  prepar 
ed  to  search  for  the  plate  that  they  seemed  to 
have  learned  was  in  the  establishment.  In 
deed  a  large  service  of  plate  was  to  be  found 
at  that  period  in  every  house  with  any  preten 
sions  to  gentility  or  wealth  in  London.  But 
it  seemed  that  Sir  Robert's  had  possessed  un 
usual  attraction  for  the  burglars. 

Closet  after  closet  was  ransacked  and  over 
hauled,  drawers  were  tossed  indiscriminately 
mto  the  midst  of  the  rooms,  and  every  nook 
and  corner  was  carefully  though  noiselessly 
searched,  but  though  they  occasionally  found 
some  articles  deemed  worthy  of  a  place  in 
their  sacks,  yet  they  could  neither  discover  the 
plate  nor  any  signs  of  it.  In  this  dilemma, 
they  resolved  to  seek  the  sleeping  apartments 
of  some  of  the  family,  and  by  threats,  so  to  act 
upon  their  fears  as  to  cause  them  to  discover 
where  the  articles  which  they  sought  were  now 
stored. 

"  Have  a  care,"  said  the  larger  of  the  two, 
"  that  we  wake  up  but  one." 

"  Shall  I  try  the  doors  ?" 

"Lightly  on  that  side — I  will  try  these," 
said  the  other,  proceeding  to  do  so. 


"They  are  all  locked — curse  the  luckj 
what's  to  be  done  ?"  asked  he  who  cut  through 
the  door. 

"  Stay,  here  is  one  that  is  not  locked," 
whispered  the  larger  of  the  two,  just  as  they 
were  about  to  give  up  the  plan  of  seeking  any 
of  the  inmates  of  the  family. 

They  shaded  their  lanterns  and  crept  stealth 
ily  into  the  room  with  a  step  so  light  that  it 
gave  no  sound  to  the  ear,  a  practice  that  they 
had  become  so  perfect  in  as  to  perform  it  with 
wonderful  dexterity.  The  furniture  in  the 
room  showed  the  villains  at  once  that  they 
were  in  the  apartment  of  some  respected  mem 
ber  of  the  family,  and  not  that  of  a  servant, 
as  they  stole  towards  the  richly  hung  bed 
stead. 

"  There's  some  one  sleeping  here,"  whis 
pered  the  smaller  of  the  two  men  to  the  other, 
pointing  to  the  bed  on  which  they  turned  the 
light  of  their  lanterns  for  a  moment. 

"  Is  it  a  man  or  a  woman,"  whispered  the 
other,  peering  about  the  room  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  dark  lanterns  which  they  carried. 

"  It  is  a  woman,  don't  you  see  ?"  said  his 
companion,  pointing  to  some  clothes  that  lay 
upon  a  chair  near  by,  and  which  indicated  the 
occupant  of  the  room. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  The  better  for  our  purpose,"  said  the  other, 
with  evident  satisfaction. 

"  Hark  !  did  you  hear  nothing  ?"  whispered 
the  smaller  of  the  two  men. 

"  Nothing." 

"  Stay,  there  it  is  again.  I  was  sure  I  heard 
something." 

"  It's  only  a  rusty  sign  turning  upon  its 
hinges,"  said  the  other. 

"  Curse  the  noise,  it  sounds  so  like  a  human 
voice  that  it  almost  speaks." 

"  Fudge,  never  mind  the  noise.  We're 
losing  precious  time." 

"  Well,  well,"  whispered  the  other,  "  I  am 
a  little  nervous,  I  know." 

"Don't  play  the  woman  here,"  said  the 
other,  sternly,  "  Come  close." 

As  they  drew  close  to  the  bedside,  the  light 
of  both  lanterns  was  thrown  full  upon  the 
face  of  the  unconscious  sleeper,  as  she  lay 
there  in  innocent  slumber,  while  the  two  vil 
lains  leaned  over  her ! 

What  a  contrast  there  was  between  their 
rough,  forbidding  countenances  and  that  of  the 
sleeper !  A  picture,  a  tableau  of  innocence 
and  of  guilt !  How  gently  the  breast  of  the 
sleeper  heaved,  how  calm,  how  sweet 
and  serene  the  expression  of  her  lips  !  The 
sight  of  so  much  loveliness  and  purity  made 
these  guilty  men  pause  and  look  at  each  other 
almost  in  doubt  whether  to  turn  and  leave  her 
there,  or  to  go  on  and  carry  out  their  design 
of  forcing  from  her  the  information  that  they 
so  eagerly  sought  to  obtain. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  in  that  way  ?" 
asked  the  larger  of  the  two  of  his  companion. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  other,  absently ; 
"  wasn't  you  looking  at  me  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  was,"  said  the  other.  "  How 
handsome  and  innocent  she  looks,"  he  contin 
ued,  gazing  intently  upon  the  fair  creature  be 
fore  them,  while  her  gentle  bosom  rose  and  fell 
in  innocent  unconsciousness. 

"  Handsome,"  said  the  other,  with  emphasis, 
as  he  whispered  in  his  companion's  ear, 
"  that's  all  outside.  But  what  would  you  give, 
Bill,  to  sleep  like  that  ?" 

He  who  was  thus  addressed  mused  for  a 
moment  in  silence,  reflecting  upon  what  the 
other  had  said. 

"  Stay,  she  is  waking,"  said  he  at  last  start 
ing  from  his  reverie,  as  the  sleeper  moved  a 
little.  "  Turn  the  light  a  little  one  side,"  he 


continued,  "  and  be  ready  to  stop  her  mouth 
with  the  sheet." 

"  Never  fear  for  me  when  the  time  comes 
for  action,"  said  the  other. 

It  was  no  sooner  said  than  done,  and  as  the 
startled  and  bewildered  girl  opened  her  eyes, 
the  sheet  was  quickly  forced  against  hor  lips, 
and  firmly  holden  there,  so  as  completely  to 
smother  any  effort  at  articulation.  At  the 
same  time  he  who  held  his  hand  upon  her 
mouth  in  this  way,  told  her  that  she  need  not 
fear,  that  they  would  not  harm  her  if  she 
would  direct  them  where  to  find  the  articles 
that  they  were  in  search  of,  but  at  the  same 
time  solemnly  assuring  her  that  the  first  word 
that  escaped  her  lips  louder  than  a  whisper, 
would  be  the  signal  for  her  instant  death. 
Still  stronger  to  enforce  this  threat  and  to  pre 
vent  her  from  attempting  to  give  any  alarm 
to  the  persons  in  the  house,  he  who  had  been 
called  Bill  drew  from  his  bosom  a  heavy  bladed 
sheath  knife,  and  deliberately  prepared  it  for 
use  before  her  very  eyes.  As  he  did  so  he 
came  more  nearly  to  the  girl,  and  once 
more  bringing  the  light  so  as  to  fall  full  upon 
her  face,  he  paused  and  seemed  to  gaze  in 
amazement  for  more  than  a  minute  at  her,  and 
then  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper  : 

"  Is  it  possible,  Edith,  that  this  is  you ! 
Have  I  found  you  at  last?" 

'/  I  know  you  not,"  said  Edith,  in  an  agony 
of  fear,  as  she  gazed  upon  his  face  frowning 
ominously  upon  her. 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  don't  you  know  Bill 
at  mother  Giles'  ?" 

"  Alas !  yes,  I  do  remember  you,"  she  said, 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  shud 
dering  as  though  a  chilling  blast  of  the  night 
air  had  swept  over  her  unprotected  person. 

"  I  thought  you  could  hardly  have  forgot- 
,  ten  me,"  replied  the  man,  with  a   sarcastic 
smile  that  became  merged  in  a  ghastly  grin,  so 
villanous  was  his  expression. 

Dazzled  and  bewildered  by  the  light,  the 
startled  girl  had  not  before  carefully  observed 
the  faces  of  the  men  who  were  before  her,  but 
she  now  discovered  in  her  interrogator,  the  per 
son  of  one  of  the  most  daring  and  reckless  vil 
lains  who  had  frequented  the  tap  room  in  St. 
Giles,  and  indeed  one  of  the  very  party  whom 
Sir  Robert  Brompton  and  Walter  Manning 
had  so  signally  and  promptly  overcome  at  the 
time  when  they  brought  her  away  from  her 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


fearful  associations  on  that  well  remembered 
night.  She  knew  not  what  to  do  in  this  fear 
ful  dilemma.  She  did  Hot  dare  to  lift  her 
voice  to  give  the  alarm,  for  she  knew  the  char 
acter  of  these  men  too  well,  and  that  they 
would  count  the  taking  of  her  life  of  not  a 
pin's  importance,  provided  it  was  necessary  to 
further  their  object  of  plunder.  And  then 
one  of  them  had  recognized  her!  That  thrill 
ed  her  to  the  very  soul,  and  in  that  exciting 
moment  even,  she  paused  to  realize  it,  for  it 
was  the  first  time  this  had  occurred  since  she 
left  their  vile  haunts. 

"  Comev,"  said  the  largest  burglar,  "  you 
must  up  and  show  us  where  the  plate  is 
kept." 

"  0,  spare  me,  as  you  hope  for  mercy,  spare 
me,"  said  Edith. 

"  Will  you  not  show  where  the  plate  is  ?" 
asked  Bill,  meaningly. 

"  Go,  and  leave  me,  I  pray  you  go.  I 
promise  you  not  to  discover  that  you  have  been 
here." 

"  We  must  handle  the  plate  first,"  said  the 
other  burglar ;  "  come,  girl,  tell  us  where  it 
is." 

"  I  know  not  where  the  articles  are  that  you 
seek,  upon  my  soul  I  do  not,"  said  the  poor 
girl,  after  a  moment's  pause,  while  she  sat 
trembling  in  bed. 

*'  It  is  something  to  have  found  you !"  re 
plied  he  who  had  recognized  her,  "  if  we  don't 
find  the  silver  at  all.  Come,  get  up,  Edith, 
you  must  follow  us,  and  quickly,  too !" 

"  O,  no,  I  can't  go,  I  can't,"  she  sobbed  bit 
terly,  as  she  drew  the  clothes  tightly  about 
her. 

I  "  Then  I  shall  make  you ;  I'm  no  trifler, 
Edith,  and  I  say  you  must  come  with  me." 

"  O,  do  not  take  me  away,  I  pray  you  do 
not.  I  will  give  you  all  that  I  have  got,  all 
my  money  and  jewels.  I  will  do  anything 
for  you  that  I  can.  There,  in  that  upper 
drawer  is  my  purse,  there  are  a  hundred 
pounds  in  it,  but  do  not,  oh !  do  not  take  me 
from  here,"  she  sobbed  most  bitterly. 

"  Hist,"  said  the  other  villain,  "  you  make 
too  much  noise ;"  at  the  same  moment  he 
opened  the  drawer  and  secured  the  money  that 
had  been  referred  to,  with  evidences  of  strong 
satisfaction. 

*'  Gal,  I  think  you  know  me,"  said  he  who 
had  recognized  her.  "  Now  if  you  do  not 


get  up  and  dress  and  follow  us  at  once,  that 
is  your  winding  sheet." 

As  the  burglar  spoke,  he  pointed  with  the 
blade  he  held,  to  the  clothes  that  covered  the 
affrighted  girl.  At  this  moment,  as  the  bur 
glar  completed  his  threat,  a  low,  but  shrill 
whistle  resounded  upon  their  ears  from  the 
boy  at  the  door,  being  repeated  thrice  in  quick 
succession. 

"  Hark !"  said  the  larger  of  the  two,  "  that 
is  the  boy's  whistle." 

"  It  is  the  signal :  we  are  discovered !"  said 
the  other,  much  excited. 

"  Gc  down  and  see  what  that  means,"  said 
he  who  was  called  Bill;  "I  will  remain  here," 
and  then  turning  to  Edith,  he  continued, 
"  come,  Miss,  hurry  on  these  things,  there  is 
no  time  to  be  lost — quick,  I  say,"  and  the  vil 
lain  laid  his  rough  hands  upon  her  arm,  forci 
bly  hurrying  her  from  the  bed  to  the  floor, 
when  she  hastily  put  on  her  clothes. 

"Oil  pray  you  do  not  take  me  from  here," 
she  sobbed,  at  last  sinking  upon  the  floor  in 
an  agony  of  grief  and  fear.  "  Surely,  I  can 
do  you  no  good,  and  it  will  make  me  so  mis 
erable." 

"  Edith,"  he  said  "  I  swear  that  unless  you 
follow  me  peaceably,  you  shall  die.  Think 
you  I  am  one  to  keep  my  word  upon  such  a 
subject  or  not  ?" 

"  But  I  can  be  of  no  use  to  you — do  not 
take  me  away." 

"  I  talk  no  more,"  said  the  burglar,  gazing 
sternly  upon  her  features ;  "  you  will  either  go 
with  me  out  of  this  house,  or,  mark  me,  I 
will  leave  you  a  corpse  in  it." 

Edith's  heart  sank  within  her,  she  saw  that 
it  was  of  no  avail  to  oppose  her  captor ;  but 
still  she  hoped  that  something  might  happen 
to  protect  her,  and  affright  the  burglars  away. 
At  this  moment  the  other  burglar  with  the 
boy  re-appeared  silently  in  the  room,  and  re 
ported  that  the  watch  had  discovered  some 
thing  that  excited  their  suspicions,  and  had 
evidently  found  the  screws  in  the  fence,  and 
when  they  left  the  door,  they  were  clambering 
the  fence,  and  were  over  in  the  yard  below. 

"  Did  you  lock  the  door  ?"  asked  the  person 
who  seemed  to  be  the  leader,  now  that  a  case 
of  emergency  had  arrived,  and  who  had  re 
mained  with  Edith. 

"  Yes,  we  locked  it,  and  bolted  it  too,"  said 
the  little  boy. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


57 


"  Then  we  must  escape  by  the  front.  Go 
down  to  the  basement,  and  open  the  way. 
I'll  follow  quickly.  Come,  Miss,  at  the  first 
step  that  you  falter,  I  will  bury  this  knife  to 
the  hilt  in  your  very  heart." 

"  Here,  come  back,"  said  the  larger  of  the 
two  men  to  the  other,  "  we  shall  have  to  sup 
port  her." 

"  Softly,"  said  the  other,  "  this  noise  in  the 
yard  may  awake  the  sleepers.  Shall  I  open 
the  lantern  ?" 

"  Yes,  quietly,  now." 

"  Here,  boy,  take  my  bag." 

"  No  '  blunt '  ?"  asked  the  boy,  as  he  weigh 
ed  the  bag  in  his  hand,  surprised  that  it  was 
so  light. 

"The  easier  for  you  to  carry,  be  easy  and 
go  on,"  replied  the  man. 

The  boy  threw  the  sack  over  his  shoulder, 
and  said  no  more. 

Thus  prepared,  with  the  trembling  girl  be 
tween  them,  and  so  weak  that  she  was  almost 
insensible,  the  two  burglars  and  the  boy  stole 
down  stairs  slowly  to  the  front  basement, 
where  their  tools  were  quickly  brought  to  bear 
upon  one  of  the  windows  on  the  inside,  and  a 
passage  was  soon  cleared  for  them  into  the 
street,  by  removing  a  part  of  a  sash  and  sev 
eral  panes  of  glass.  Terrified  beyond  endur 
ance,  Edith  had  now  fainted,  and  the  burglars 
saw  that  if  they  would  take  her  with  them, 
they  must  do  so  by  main  strength,  for  she  was 
perfectly  insensible. 

At  this  state  of  affairs  they  heard  the  watch 
men  in  the  yard,  who  seemed  to  have  discov 
ered  the  hole  in  the  door,  and  thus  became  sat 
isfied  of  foul  play,  and  were  preparing  for  a 
regular  search.  Already  they  had  begun  to 
thunder  at  the  door  to  awake  the  inmates,  and 
the  burglars  knew  very  well  that  a  posse  would 
soon  be  summoned  to  surround  the  house  and 
cut  off  their  retreat.  As  yet,  there  seemed  to 
be  but  two  of  the  watchmen  at  the  door,  and 
both  of  these  were  still  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
but  their  rattles  were  already  sprung. 

The  boy  had  crept  through  the  window, 
and  had  charge  of  the  booty. 


"  Bill,  it  wont  do  to  take  the  girl — I  tell 
you,  it  wont — it  will  lead  to  our  being  taken 
ourselves,"  said  the  other  burglar,  hurriedly. 

"Nonsense — bear  a  hand  here." 

"  But  I  tell  you,  it's  downright  folly,"  con 
tinued  the  other,  earnestly. 

"  If  you  are  afraid,  take  care  of  yourself. — 
I'm  in  no  hurry." 

"  I'm  not  afraid,  Bill — you  know  that  ain't 
my  failin'." 

All  this  while  the  larger  of  the  burglars  had 
been  arranging  Edith's  dress  about  her,  an 
tying  her  frock  about  her  feet  with  his  neck 
handkerchief,  and  depositing  her  lifeless  body 
on  the  sill  of  the  window.  This  done,  he 
said  : 

"  Will  you  help  me,  my  cove,  or  shall  I  op 
erate  alone  ?" 

"  Come,  Bill,  take  my  advice,  and  leave  the 
girl,"  said  the  other,  coaxingly. 

"  Go  she  shall,  though  I  carry  her  alone," 
he  replied.  "  There  is  no  more  time  to  be  lost. 
Step  through  there,  and  I'll  pass  her  along." 

"  Well,  if  you  say  so,  Bill,  but  I  don't  like 
this  part  of  the  business,"  said  the  olher.  "  It 
isn't  what  we  came  here  for,  and  we  risk  all, 
without  gaining  anything." 

The  lifeless  body  of  the  poor  girl,  still  hap 
pily  insensible,  was  passed  through  the  win 
dow,  and  the  burglar  sprang  quickly  through 
after  it,  and  lifting  her  from  the  ground  as 
though  she  had  been  a  mere  child,  and  throw 
ing  her  upon  his  shoulder,  was  soon  lost  in  the 
darkness  and  maze  of  streets  that  run  towards 
the  east  part  of  the  town. 

The  watch  seeing  the  door  fastened,  pre 
sumed,  of  course,  that  the  robber  had  fled,  and 
therefore  did  not  take  such  steps  as  they  would 
have  done  if  they  had  supposed  it  at  all  prob 
able  that  they  were  on  the  premises.  After 
effecting  their  entrance  by  arousing  the  family, 
they  saw  the  mistake,  and  were  satisfied  that 
while  they  were  operating  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  the  burglars  were  escaping  from  the 
front  part. 

Edith's  loss  drove  the  whole  family  circle  at 
Sir  Robert  Brompton's  house  almost  frantic. 


CHAPTER    XL 


THE  ROBBER  OF  THE  RHINE. 


The  good  old  plan 

That  they  should  get,  who  have  the  power, 
And  they  should  keep,  who  can. 


WORDSWORTH. 


LEAVING  busy  London,  with  all  its  crime 
and  splendor,  its  poverty  and  wealth,  the  read 
er  will  now  come  with  us  to  the  valley  of  val 
leys,  the  romantic  and  classic  Rhine. 

The  singular  combination  of  beautiful 
scenery  and  miserable  associations,  is  perhaps 
no  where  so  strongly  combined,  as  in  that  valley 
so  famed  in  story,  and  from  which  have  sprung 
so  many  wild  and  thrilling  legends.  The 
beautiful  banks  of  the  far  famed  river,  orna 
mented  with  soft  luxuriant  groves  and  stately 
castles,  and  remarkable  everywhere  for  its 
many  classic  associations,  presents  as  a 
whole  one  of  the  most  romantic  pictures  in  all 
of  Europe.  Still  the  deep  blue  eyes  of  the 
poor  peasant  girls,  so  strangely  large,  glare 
upon  you  oftentimes  with  the  scowl  of  famine, 
while  they  are  compelled  to  labor  like  beasts 
of  burthen  for  the  humblest  means  of  subsist 
ence.  The  starving  hamlet  and  the  stately 
castle  are  here  side;by  side,  forming  a  painter's 
paradise,  and  a  grave  for  a  poet's  heart. 

Springing  as  the  noble  river  does  from  the 
very  bosom  of  the  Alps,  midway  between 
Italy  and  Switzerland,  it  runs  a  course  through 
the  valley,  of  four  hundred  leagues  before  it 
meets  the  ocean.  Its  banks  on  either  side  for 
two  thirds  df  the  distance  are  covered  with 
richly  yielding  and  highly  cultivated  vineyards, 
with  ancient  and  stately  castles,  and  towers 


and  convents,  and  the  strong  holds  of  the  old 
feudal  lords  and  knights  of  the  soil,  in  times 
when  might  made  right,  and  every  castle  had 
its  secret  dungeon  and  tales  of  horror.  When 
daring  robbers,  Under  the  cloak  of  knighthood, 
committed  the  vilest  deeds,  and  stole  away 
noble  ladies  from  their  fathers'  halls,  of 
emptied  the  coffers  of  a  neighboring  convent. 
Innumerable  are  the  legends  and  stories  of 
mysterious  interest  hanging  over  these  an 
cient  piles,  now  mostly  gone  to  ruin  and  decay, 
moss  covered,  and  tenanted  by  the  bats  and 
owls,  suggestive  themes,  in  their  picturesque 
beauty,  to  the  imagination. 

At  this  period,  gentle  reader,  when  we 
would  conduct  you  to  this  romantic  spot,  the 
banks  of  the  Rhine  and  the  surrounding  or  im 
mediate  country  were  the  theatre  of  exploits 
and  the  haunts  of  men  as  extraordinary  as 
the  world  has  ever  produced.  The  unsettled 
state  of  the  government,  and  the  conflicting 
opinions  of  the  various  parties,  gave  prevalence 
to  a  lawless  and  reckless  spirit,  which  seemed 
to  pervade  every  class  of  the  community  ;  not 
even  excepting  a  portion  of  the  peasantry 
themselves,  and  giving  rise  to  a  reign  of  ter 
ror  that  is  registered  in  letters  of  blood  on  the 
pages  of  history.  At  this  startling  period, 
fostered  and  matured  by  the  wild  spirit  of  the 
times,  there  sprang  up  innumerable  roving 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


bands  of  robbers  and  banditti,  who  preyed 
upon  the  resources  of  the  people,  generally, 
however,  favoring  the  humbler  classes,  and, 
in  fact,  for  a  considerable  period,  making  them 
selves  actual  masters  of  the  valley  of  the 
Rhine. 

If  any  of  the  leaders  of  these  bands  were 
particularly  marked  out,  or  pursued  by  any 
local  interest,  they  found  but  little  diffi 
culty  in  making  good  their  escape  from 
their  pursuers  and  from  justice.  From  Bel 
gium,  for  instance,  they  would  easily  pass 
into  Holland,  if  pursuit  was  strongly  pressed, 
or  into  the  countries  bordering  on  the  Rhine, 
and  there  the  minute  subdivision  of  the  Ger 
manic  confederation,  in  which  each  petty 
prince  maintained  a  most  jealous  spirit  of  in 
dependence  of  the  rest,  rendered  pursuit  of 
the  fugitives  among  their  respective  domains, 
almost  a  hopeless  and  fruitless  task,  and  the 
most  noted  banditti  often  thus  escaped. 

Of  these  times,  particularly,  we  wish  to 
speak,  in  the  drawing  of  our  story  for  the 
reader. 

Among  the  leaders  of  the  bands  referred  to, 
were  the  well  known  names  of  Picard,  Bre- 
bault,  Mersen,  Rospeck,  and  that  pattern  of 
chivalry  among  banditti,  the  renowned  Schin- 
derhanes.  This  latter,  known  all  over  Europe 
by  the  title  of  the  Robber  of  the  Rhine,  is 
as  famed  for  his  eccentricity  of  character  as 
for  his  boldness  and  bravery,  as  noted  for  his 
charities  as  for  his  robberies,  and  as  much  loved 
by  the  poor  as  he  was  hated  by  the  proud  and 
noble  in  rank,  and  whose  life  forms  a  series  of 
romantic  adventures,  rather  than  of  deeds  of 
bloodshed.  But  yet  he  could  be  cruel,  and 
his  hands  were  not  unsteeped  in  Wood.  He 
was  born  of  humble  parentage,  somewhere 
upon  the  banks  of  the  river,  where  he  was  en 
gaged  from  boyhood  in  the  lowly  occupation 
of  a  peasant  and  a  vinedresser,  until  for  some 
petty  and  innocent  breach  of  the  law,  he  was 
sentenced  and  publicly  whipped.  It  was  not 
the  pain  that  he  experienced,  physically,  that 
was  so  bitter  to  his  spirit,  it  was  the  mental 
wounds  that  each  stroke  of  the  lash  inflicted ; 
it  was  the  agony  of  shame  that  corroded  deep 
er  than  the  sores  upon  his  back,  and  he  told 
those  who  had  executed  the  sentence,  that  it 
should  cost  them  dear.  The  humble  peasant 
was  in  earnest,  and  from  that  hour  he  dedi 
cated  all  his  energies  of  body  and  mind,  to 


revenge  himself  upon  that  law  which  had 
thus,  without  cause,  disgraced  him  and  his 
name  forever. 

The  judge  who  sentenced  him  was  found 
murdered  in  his  bed,  and  the  executioner  who 
had  applied  the  lash,  was  discovered  near  the 
castle  walls,  stabbed  to  the  heart 

As  he  grew  in  years,  so  did  his  deeds  grow 
in  magnitude  and  atrocity,  until  he  collected 
about  him  a  daring  band  of  men,  of  spirit  con 
genial  with  his  own,  and  many  of  whom  were 
goaded  on  to  revenge  by  like  injuries  with 
that  which  had  embittered  the  heart  of  their 
leader.  With  this  troop,  well  mounted  and 
well  armed,  he  swept  the  country,  putting  at 
defiance  all  that  the  magistrates  could  send 
against  him.  His  tactics  were  of  the  most 
shrewd  and  cunning  character,  and  when  force 
would  not  accomplish  his  daring  plans,  he  re 
sorted  to  the  most  subtle  strategy. 

By  certain  preconcerted  signs,  the  various 
members  of  his  band  could  always  recognize 
each  other,  wherever  they  met,  and  these 
signs  and  tokens  were  guarded  from  being 
divulged  by  the  most  awful  oaths  and  penal 
ties  that  could  be  invented,  and  perhaps  have 
never  yet  been  revealed,  except  to  members  of 
the  fraternity.  He  would  sometimes  disperse 
his  entire  band  over  the  country,  in  pursuance 
of  some  well  digested  plan ;  one  here,  one 
there,  no  two  together.  Sometimes  they  were 
thrown  into  the  walls  of  the  city ;  no  two 
lodging  together,  or  offering  to  recognize  each 
other  in  the  streets,  until,  their  object  gained, 
they  met  once  more  at  the  rendezvous. — 
Names,  dresses,  character,  occupation,  com 
plexion,  and  even  features,  were  changed  with 
the  most  bewildering  facility,  and  thus  they 
were  often  performing  their  depredations  upon 
others,  under  a  complete  and  impenetrable 
mask,  eluding  all  vigilance,  and  confounding 
all  precedent. 

Schinderhanes  was  of  the  most  gallant  and 
romantic  disposition,  being  passionately  devot 
ed  to  the  gentler  sex.  It  was  this  trait  that 
prompted  him  to  make  love  to  the  high-born 
and  beautiful  Julia  Blasius,.a  noble  German 
lady,  who,  after  losing  her  heart  to  the  robber 
chief,  ran  away  from  her  parents  and  her 
home,  to  follow  his  fortunes  and  to  become 
his  wife ;  a  statement  that  draws  not  at  all 
upon  fancy  for  its  support,  being  strictly  and 
historically  true. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


This  lovely  and  devoted  girl  was  scarcely 
eighteen,  when  she  left  her  father's  halls  for 
the  robber's  home  in  the  deep  wilds  of  the  for 
est  ;  but  she  was  ever  most  true  and  devoted 
to  him,  arid  so  was  the  robber  to  her.  But 
his  career  was  a  fearful  one,  in  which  domes 
tic  happiness  could  scarcely  have  a  chance  to 
display  itself;  his  occupation,  so  bloody,  cruel, 
and  unholy,  must  soon  find  a  tragical  end. — 
He  was  at  length  taken  on  the  German  side 
of  the  river,  tried  and  condemned,  with  nine 
teen  of  his  band,  to  die  by  the  hand  of  the 
executioner  ;  his  time  had  come,  his  fate  was 
sealed.  His  young  and  beautiful  wife,  with 
her  little  child,  a  handsome  boy,  attended  him 
constantly.  No  fear  of  shame,  no  dread  of 
publicity,  could  separate  the  devoted  wife 
from  her  husband.  But  the  fatal  day  at  last 
arrived,  when  Schinderhanes  expiated  with 
his  companions  the  many  crimes  they  had 
committed. 

The  faithful  wife,  the  high-born  and  beauti 
ful  Julia  Blasius,  sad  and  broken-hearted  at 
his  loss,  soon  followed  her  husband  to  the 
grave,  leaving  her  boy,  Karl,  to  buffet  the 
world  alone. 

Was  it  not  natural  that  one  thus  born  and 
thus  influenced,  should  grow  up  a  robber? 

Early  realizing  the  relationship  in  which 
he  stood  to  the  world,  and  the  position  in 
which  fortune  from  his  infancy  had  placed 
him,  Karl  Blasius — for  by  his  mother's  last 
request  he  took  her  name — began,  while  yet  a 
boy,  to  look  upon  the  world  and  the  laws,  as 
his  natural  enemy,  and  to  conceive  how  best 
he  could  prepare  himself  to  meet  the  iron  for 
tune  that  seemed  to  lie  in  his  future  path. — 
Through  the  kindness  of  those  who  knew  his 
story,  and  who  had  witnessed,  during  his  fath 
er's  trial,  the  constant  devotedness  of  his 
mother,  Karl  was  befriended  and  cared  for. — 
His  patrons  saw  in  the  young  orphan  germs 
of  unusual  intelligence  and  aptitude.  He  was 
consequently  sent  to  school,  and  afforded  no 
mean  opportunity  of  acquiring  a  well  balanced 
and  liberal  education.  With  gratitude  for 
this  kindness,  which  he  keenly  realized,  Karl 
was  diligent  and  ambitious  in  his  studies  for 
a  period  of  years ;  but  there  was  to  be  a  tragic 
end  to  this  seeming  calm.  The  blood  that 
flowed  in  his  veins  was  of  a  peculiar  stock ; 
he  had  drawn  in  rebellion  with  his  mother's 
milk;  it  came  to  him  as  a  natural  inherit 


ance,  and  being  one  day  severely  reprimanded 
and  punished  by  his  preceptor,  perhaps  unjust 
ly,  he  stabbed  him  to  the  heart,  and  fled  at 
once  to  the  depths  of  the  forest. 

This  single  step  was  sufficient — his  fate 
was  consummated  by  the  act.  That  fatal 
blow  made  Karl  Blasius  a  robber,  for  he  had 
wantonly  outraged  the  laws;  there  was  no 
longer  a  shelter  for  him  among  honest  people, 
and  but  little  more  than  a  boy  in  years,  though 
with  the  heart  and  bitter  experience  of  a  man, 
he  enrolled  himself  among  the  secret  banditti. 
He  deemed,  like  the  fatalist,  that  he  was 
doomed  to  be  a  robber,  and  that  in  taking  this 
step  he  was  but  fulfilling  fate. 

Remarkable  for  daring  and  for  the  almost  mys 
terious  success  that  seemed  to  clothe  his  every 
effort,  Karl  rose  in  the  estimation  of  the  band, 
who  saw  in  him  the  requisite  for  command, 
a  quick,  intelligent,  and  decisive  spirit,  which 
was  well  calculated  to  lead  them  on  success 
fully  to  the  consummation  of  their  wishes. — 
Their  principal  aim  was  of  course  the  amass 
ing  of  gold,  and  their  depredations  were  upon 
the  rich  only,  whom  they  considered  their 
natural  enemies.  These  feelings  and  purpose?, 
Karl  heartily  subscribed  to,  and  ere  many 
months  after  he  had  joined  them,  though 
yet  but  eighteen  years  of  age,  he  was  unani 
mously  chosen  captain  of  the  band,  which 
numbered  in  its  ranks  more  than  a  hundred 
men,  made  up  of  bold  outlaws — each  one  of 
whom  had  some  real  or  fancied  wrong  to  spur 
him  on  to  revenge  upon  the  law, 

Karl's  better  informed  mind  saw  at  once  the 
weakness  of  the  association,  of  which  he  had 
become  the  head,  and  with  cunning  ability, 
he  at  once  set  about  a  thorough  re-organiza 
tion  of  the  troops.  He  saw  that  their  safety 
and  success  lay  solely  in  union  of  purpose  and 
action,  and  that  over  such  a  rude  mingling  of 
different  spirits  and  tempers,  there  must  be  one 
master,  one  mind  whose  -will  must  be  absolute, 
and  of  this  he  soon  convinced  his  comrades, 
who  yielded  at  once  to  his  well  conceived  ar 
guments,  and  made  him  in  all  respects  their 
absolute  master.  Once  endowed  with  this 
authority,  Karl  Blasius  took  good  care  to 
.maintain  it,  but  not  abuse  the  confidence  en 
trusted  to  him,  and  he  immediately  set  about 
organizing  one  of  the  most  desperate  and  suc 
cessful  bodies  of  banditti  that  had  devastated 
the  valley  of  the  Rhine,  since  the  death  of  his 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


61 


father.  No  traveller  could  pass  the  route 
that  intersected  the  mountains,  or  roads  with 
in  a  couple  of  leagues  of  the  stronghold  of  the 
band,  without  paying  a  liberal  tribute  to  the 
robber's  treasury.  When  they  were  not  re 
sisted  upon  the  road,  in  the  execution  of  their 
object,  the  banditti  simply  enforced  this  tax, 
but  if  compelled  to  it  by  opposition,  they  were 
bold  and  dangerous. 

Karl  knew  full  well  his  father's  history,  and 
it  was  not  without  its  effect  upon  his  conduct. 
Indeed,  with  a  sort  of  fatality,  he  seemed  to 
imitate  his  course  as  nearly  as  possible.  He 
knew  that  it  had  been  a  principle  of  his  father 
to  fight  against  the  rich,  and  to  divide  his 
spoils  with  the  poor.  He  realized  that  he  had 
stronger  incentives  to  do  this  than  even  his 
father  had,  for  his  mother's  rich  and  noble 
family  had  disowned  and  spurned  her  from 
their  door,  when,  after  his  father's  death,  find 
ing  herself  alone  and  unprotected,  she  beg 
ged  for  shelter  and  assistance  at  her  father's 
castle  gates. 

The  young  robber  remembered  this,  and 
how,  indeed,  could  he  forget  it  ?  It  was  the 
incentive  in  many  of  his  daring  plans.  He 
revered  the  memory  of  his  mother,  and  though 
he  was  of  such  a  tender  age  when  she  died, 
he  remembered  her  person  well,  and  often  had 
he  sworn  that  his  revenge  should  be  deep  and 
lasting.  He  resolved  that  his  life  should  be  a 
crusade  against  the  class  whom  fortune  had 
placed  so  far  above  him,  and  he  was  faithful 
to  his  plan  of  action ;  for,  though  he  robbed 
the  rich,  the  humble  peasant  shared  bountiful 
ly  of  his  gains  ;  there  was  no  stinting  in  his 
gifts  ;  he  was  generosity's  self,  and  his  chari 
ty  was  as  copious  and  free  as  the  flow  of  the 
river  that  washed  the  banks  of  the  noble  val 
ley. 

Karl  became  a  complete  adept  in  his  profes 
sion  ;  he  was  so  perfect  at  disguises,  that  he 
had  often  for  the  experiment's  sake,  deceived 
the  members  of  his  own  band,  and  his  re 
markable  knowledge  of  all  that  transpired  in 
the  busy  circles  of  the  neighboring  cities, 
showed  that,  in  assumed  characters,  he  must 
be  often  among  them.  On  market  days,  he 
and  his  band  moved  among  the  busy  and 
thoughtless  masses,  disguised  so  as  to  repre 
sent  dealers  and  inarketmen  themselves,  but 
only  intent  upon  gaining  such  information  as 
would  be  of  professional  use  to  them.  Watch 


ing  rich  merchants,  and  ingratiating  them 
selves  into  their  confidence,  and  learning  their 
plans  and  habits,  and  if  they  were  about  to 
tempt  the  highway  with  money  in  their  pos 
session,  and  if  so,  at  what  hour  and  point 
they  might  be  met  with. 

Many  of  these  dealers  who  afterwards  en 
tered  the  passes  of  the  mountains,  or  threaded 
the  dark  paths  of  the  dense  woods,  were  never 
heard  of  again."  The  knowing  ones  said  that 
such  had  resisted  until  by  exasperating  the 
robbers,  they  lost  their  lives  as  well  as  their 
gold.  Others  would  reach  their  homes,  de 
claring  that  they  had  been  so  mysteriously 
robbed,  that  they  thought  it  must  be  evil 
spirits  that  had  done  it,  not  men.  Some  said 
they  were  surrounded  by  the  woods  seeming 
ly,  and  nothing  else,  save  the  hooting  noise 
of  owls,  or  the  cry  of  some  startled  bird. — 
Terrified  at  this,  they  would  pass  on,  and 
strive  to  get  through  the  route.  But  when 
they  had  entered  some  lonely  pass,  or  more 
deeply  shaded  path,  or  night  had  darkened 
their  way,  some  huge,  dark  object  brushed 
against  them,  and  then  almost  instantly  van 
ished.  Oftentimes  this  was  actually  all  the 
encounter  they  experienced,  and  yet  to  their 
astonishment,  their  gold  was  gone. 

This  mystery  that  hung  about  the  opera 
tions  of  the  banditti,  rendered  them  more  potent 
than  any  kind  of  force  could  have  done ;  and 
people  spoke  of  them  or  their  deeds  with  a 
trembling  voice. or  in  whispers,  looking  about 
them  half  as  though  they  expected  some 
strange  spirit  might  be  at  hand  to  take  re 
venge  upon  them.  In  the  inns  and  hostelriea 
where  their  deeds  were  often  recounted,  the 
humble  people  never  mentioned  Karl  or  hia 
band,  without  crossing  themselves;  and  it 
was  universally  believed  that  the  robbers  had 
formed  some  potent  league  with  the  evil  spirit, 
who  aided  them  in  their  plans  and  objects. — 
It  was  a  superstitious  period,  and  those  influ 
ences  upon  the  credulity  of  the  people  were 
of  no  small  advantage  to  the  robbers  them 
selves. 

Mounted  on  spirited  horses,  the  band  thus 
would  sometimes  appear  in  numbers  upon  the 
highway,  and  boldly,  in  the  light  of  mid  day, 
stop  the  travelling  carriage  of  some  nobleman, 
and  with  the  blandest  courtesy  possible,  in 
form  him  that  it  was  the  custom,  in  these 
parts,  for  all  who  passed  that  way  to  pay  tri- 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


bute  to  their  treasury,  and  thus,  with  scarce 
ly  the  show  of  force,  they  would  fleece  their 
victim.  Of  course  this  could  not  always  be 
the  case,  for  sometimes  the  banditti  would  fall 
in  with  some  men  of  a  brave  and  stubborn  dis 
position,  who  were  not  inclined  to  part  with 
their  property  without  striking  a  blow  in  its 
behalf,  and  consequently  resisted  with  fatal 
effect  the  attack  of  the  robbers.  When  this 
was  the  case,  the  authorities  perhaps,  on  the 
subsequent  day,  would  have  their  attention 
drawn  to  the  spot  by  information  given  by 
some  traveller,  and  there  find  a  perfect  wreck 
of  carriage,  harness  and  trunks,  the  body  of 
the  owner,  oftentimes,  beneath  the  wheels 
and  rubbish,  with  a  brace  of  balls  through  his 
brains.  The  price  of  resistance ! 

The  strangest  fancies  seemed  to  govern  the 
movements  of  the  banditti,  who  robbed,  as  we 
have  shown,  sometimes  in  one  way,  some 
times  in  another,  at  times  with  the  most  pro 
found  secrecy  and  mystery,  at  others  with 
open  force  ;  and  thus  they  put  al  calculation 
as  to  the  form  in  which  they  might  be  expect 
ed,  quite  at  fault,  and  people  at  ast  deemed 
all  preventive  measures  little  better  than  a 
useless  precaution.  Indeed,  wnen  these  mea 
sures  were  adopted  and  evident,  they  seemed 
to  attract  the  robbers'  ambition  to  overcome 
them,  and  they  rarely  failed  to  do  so. 

Nor  were  the  cities  free  from  their  occa 
sional  visits  and  depredations.  The  house  of 
a  rich  and  high  official  would  perhaps  be  dis 
turbed  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  by  the 
knocking  of  a  supposed  neighbor  at  the  door, 
earnestly  begging  for  some  medicine,  or  assist 
ance  of  some  sort  in  an  emergency  of  sick 
ness.  When,  yielding  to  the  dictates  of 
humanity,  the  door  would  finally  be  opened 
by  the  servant,  the  supposed  old  woman  would 
overpower  him  or  her,  as  the  case  might  be, 
and  a  score  of  banditti  would  file  quietly  into 
the  entrance,  and  without  noise  take  immedi 
ate  possession  of  the  house,  and  placing  a 
guard  over  each  of  the  inmates,  prevent  an 
alarm  being  given. 

This  having   been  accomplished   without 


any  serious  noise,  the  halls  and  chambers 
were  then  thoroughly  ransacked,  and  every 
article  of  value  abstracted  and  disposed  of  by 
those  who  stood  ready  hard  by,  in  various  dis 
guises  to  take  them.  The  leader  of  the  band 
would  then  coolly  tell  the  master  of  the  house, 
that  the  building  should  be  burned  to  the 
ground  on  the  following  night,  if  he  attempt 
ed  to  raise  any  alarm  after  th*ey  commenced 
to  retreat.  The  robbers  then  deliberately  left 
the  premises,  while  the  members  of  the  band 
separated  to  such  points  as  had  already  been 
arranged  for  their  security,  to  meet  again  at 
their  rendezvous  in  the  forest,  when  the  city 
gates  should  once  more  be  opened,  and  they 
in  their  disguises  be  enabled  to  leave  the 
town  unknown  and  unsuspected. 

This  was  the  usual  mode  of  their  trans 
actions  within  the  city. 

Further  to  perfect  their  means  of  obtaining 
information,  a  number  of  resident  Jews  were 
always  enrolled  in  their  ranks,  as  auxiliaries, 
though  not  admitted  to  the  full  secrets  of  the 
fraternity.  It  was  their  especial  business  to 
keep  the  banditti  informed  of  all  important 
movements,  especially  of  such  as  might  lead 
to  their  intercepting  gold  or  other  treasures, 
by  knowing  the  time  and  route,  when  and 
where  they  would  be  transported. 

These  Jews  were  bound  by  as  fearful  oaths, 
as  any  of  the  troop,  to  faithfulness,  and  well 
they  knew  that  the  laws  of  the  band  were  so 
severe  against  treachery,  that  their  own  lives 
were  not  worth  a  feather's  weight,  if  they  in 
any  instance  proved  unfaithful  or  traitorous. 
The  robbers  had  found  it  necessary  to  make 
one  or  two  examples  of  them,  and  this  was 
remembered,  and  acted  as  a  sufficient  check 
upon  them  ever  after,  and  no  re  ward,  however 
large  and  liberal  in  its  spirit,  had  since  tempt 
ed  them  to  betray  their  knowledge.  Thus 
secured  and  perfected,  these  organizations 
were  of  the  most  dangerous  and  fearful  sta 
bility,  almost  beyond  the  reach  and  power  of 
the  law. 

But  we  must  change  the  scene,  in  order  to 
bring  up  other  characters  of  our  story. 


CHAPTER    XII, 


THE   UNKNOWN   TRAVELLER, 


Excellent !  I  smell  a  device. — TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


It  was  at  the  little  inn  of  Morentz,  on  one 
fine  summer  afternoon,  that  a  pleasure-seek 
ing  traveller,  to  judge  by  his  appearance,  was 
settling  his  bill  for  refreshments,  when  he 
asked  the  good-natured  landlord,  as  he  took 
up  his  pack  and  staff,  which  road  would  lead 
him  to  Bronts. 

"  Bronts,"  said  the  host,  "  do  you  go  there 
to-night,  and  alone  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  traveller,  "  it  is  not  more 
than  three  leagues." 

"  True." 

"  And  I  can  walk  that  distance  before 
nightfall,"  said  the  traveller. 

"  No  doubt,  you  can  easily  walk  that  dis* 
tance,  provided  you  are  uninterrupted,  but — " 

"  But !  but  what  ?"  asked  the  traveller,  not 
a  little  interested. 

"  Why  the  road,  you  know,  is  a  bad  one, 
and  the  robbers  only  last  week,  killed  a  noble 
man  arid  all  his  suite,  not  more  than  half  way 
between  here  and  Bronts." 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  traveller,  coolly  strap 
ping  on  his  pack.  "  Well,  I  suppose  they  had 
some  object  in  so  doing,  sir.  But  I  think  that 
it  would  hardly  pay  them  to  shoot  such  game 
RS  I  should  proved' 


"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  said  the  land' 
lord  ;  "  none  escape  their  scrutiny." 

"  Say  you  so  ?"  said  the  traveller,  musing  to 
himself. 

"  Wont  you  stay  until  a  party  go  over  the 
mountains  to-morrow  ?" 

"  O,  no  !  I  never  turned  back  from  danger 
yet,  and  I'll  not  commence  now." 

"  As  you  will,  but  I  would  not  go  to  Bronte 
to-night,  and  alone,  for  a  dozen  ounces,"  said 
the  landlord,  with  a  sincerity  that  attracted  the 
traveller's  attention. 

The  traveller  was  a  young  man  and  evident* 
ly  an  Englishman.  His  dress  was  one  chosen 
for  service,  and  seemed  to  indicate  in  its  style 
and  convenience  that  the  wearer  was  trudging 
through  this  beautiful  valley  on  foot,  in  order 
that  he  might  the  better  enjoy  and  appreciate 
its  romantic  loveliness.  His  countenance  in 
dicated  the  man  of  taste;  his  manners  were 
courteous  and  refined,  showing  those  unmis 
takable  tokens  of  high  breeding,  that  one  who 
has  seen  much  of  the  world  and  in  good  soci* 
ety  acquires,  even  in  matters  of  trivial  import. 
The  little  pack  that  was  slung  upon  his  back 
and  secured  across  the  chest  by  a  strap  and 
buckle,  was  only  large  enough  to  contain  a 
change  of  linen  and  a  few  trifling  necessities, 


64 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


while  everything  about  him  bespoke  the  indo 
lence  and  comfort  of  one  who  seeks  his  own 
pleasure,  and  who  was  quite  at  liberty  to  go 
on  or  stay,  at  his  will. 

At  the  moment  when  the  landlord  made  the 
last  remark  relating  to  the  safety  of  the  road, 
a  person  who  had  also  been  sharing  the  re 
freshments  of  the  house,  approached  them  to 
pay  for  the  same.  He  laid  down  the  money, 
and  having  received  the  proper  change,  turned 
to  the  Englishman,  and  said : 

"  Did  you  say  you  were  going  to  Bronts  to 
night,  friend  ?" 

"  I  did,"  replied  the  other,  turning  towards 
his  interrogator  in  a  friendly  manner. 

"  So  am  I." 

"  Indeed  ?     Do  you  walk  ?" 

"  Yes — and  you  ?" 

"  Walk  also." 

"  Why  not  go  together,  then  ?"  said  the 
other.  "  The  road  is  a  lone  one  at  best." 

"With  all  my  heart,"  replied  the  English 
man,  with  evident  pleasure  ;  "  but  mine  host 
here  tells  me  that  it  is  a  most  dangerous  route, 
and  that  the  banditti  scour  it  at  all  hours." 

"That  is  very  true,  and  if  you  have  money 
or  aught  else  of  value  about  you,  it  were  bet 
ter  for  you  to  wait  until  to-morrow,  and  take 
advantage  of  some  escort,"  suggested  the 
other.  "  As  for  myself,  in  the  first  place  I 
have  nothing  to  lose,  and  in  the  next,  I  am 
well  armed,  and  therefore  I  shall  go  through 
to-night." 

"  I  have  nothing  with  me  of  any  value  to 
others,"  said  the  Englishman,  "  for  the  robbers 
would  hardly  find  my  letters  of  introduction 
of  any  value  to  them,  and  I  have  nothing 
else,  except  some  linen  with  me." 

"  Letters  of  introduction  ?"  repeated  his 
new  acquaintance,  inquiringly. 

"  Ay,  a  few  to  some  of  the  best  families  in 
Bronts,"  said  the  other. 

"  Shall  we  go  on  then  together,  or  do  you 
prefer  to  await  an  escort  ?" 

"  If  you  can  go,  I  see  no  reason  why  I  may 
*mot  do  so  as  well." 

"  So  it  looks  to  me  ;  but  you  are  your  own 
guide,"  said  the  other." 

"  Then  1  shall  go,  so  good  Mr.  Landlord 
give  me  your  prayers." 

"  I  wish  you  God  speed,if  you  resolve  to  go." 

"  Are  you  armed  ?"  asked  his  new  acquaint 
ance  of  the  Englishman. 


"Yes." 

"  With  pistols  and  knife  ?" 

"  Both." 

"  I  have  a  brace  of  trusty  pistols  and  this 
sword  cane,"  said  the  other,  half  unsheathing 
the  weapon,  "and  unless,  they  come  in  force, 
we  might  trouble  even  a  half  dozen  of  the 
banditti  to  capture  us." 

"  Let  us  go  on  then,  at  once,"  said  the 
Englishman,  shaking  hands  with  the  landlord 
in  leave-taking,  "  We  shall  not  want  to 
borrow  of  the  night  under  the  circumstances." 

"  Aliens,  then,"  said  the  other,  cheerfully, 
as  they  passed  out  together. 

The  stranger  who  had  thus  introduced  him 
self,  was  a  young  man  of  some  twenty-four 
years  of  age,  and  bearing  in  his  appearance 
the  token  and  bearing  of  a  German  student. 
Like  the  Englishman,  he  wore  a  small,  light 
pack  upon  his  shoulders,  the  almost  universal 
accompaniment  of  foot  travellers  of  that  pe 
riod.  By  a  close  inspection  of  the  loosened 
top  of  the  pack,  the  implements  for  sketching 
and  painting  that  an  artist  might  use,  were 
visible.  The  stranger  was  fine  looking,  with 
a  clear,  brilliant  eye,  and  manly  forehead. 
He  wore  his  beard  unshaven,  in  the  style  of 
the  period,  au  naturel,  and  his  countenance 
had  the  olive  hue  that  tints  the  skin  under 
Italian  skies.  In  person  he  was  not  stoutly 
built,  and  yet  there  was  an  air  of  strength  in 
his  well  knit  frame,  and  a  spirit  of  decision 
in  the  lines  of  his  mouth,  that  would  have 
made  you  prefer  him  for  a  friend  rather  than 
an  enemy  in  a  time  of  emergency.  His  step, 
which  is  a  stronger  mark  of  spirit  than  most 
of  us  are  aware  of,  was  characteristic,  and 
he  walked  with  a  free,  bold  air  as  they  left  the* 
hostelry  for  the  high  road. 

Such  were  the  impressions  that  a  casual 
glance  would  afford  of  the  stranger. 

The  other  was  perhaps  a  few  years  older 
than  the  student,  while  his  frame  was  broader 
at  the  chest,  and  altogether  he  seemed. much 
the  stronger  of  the  two,  though  as  we  have 
intimated,  both  were  of  that  class  that  it  were 
better  perhaps  to  count  as  friends.  They  both 
fell  at  once  into  that  ease  of  manner  and 
conversation  that  characterizes  men  of  the 
world.  Leaving  the  inn  thus  together,  they 
turned  to  the  forked  road  that  ascends  the 
hills,  and  with  a  free  and  steady  movement 
pressed  on  their  way  towards  Bronts. 


The  third  number  of  this  book  witt  be  published  May  &th. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


CHAPTER    XII .—[CONTINUED.] 


Ere  long  the  road  wound  into  the  depths  of 
the  forest,  along  narrow  paths,  and  even 
broken  grounds,  when  the  student  quietly 
loosened  his  pistols,  and  the  Englishman  fol 
lowed  his  example.  It  seemed  to  he  an  odd 
path  they  had  taken,  but  the  student  said  he 
knew  the  path  very  well,  and  that  he  had  taken 
a  shorter  way  than  that  commonly  travelled, 
and  they  would  soon  discover  that  they  had 
gained  by  this.  Already  had  the  sun  set  be- 
*fore  they  had  got  half  way,  and  as  the  wood 
shut  out  what  little  light  there  was  left,  the 
travellers  found  themselves  in  comparative 
darkness. 

Suddenly  a  screech  thrilled  across  their 
path,  so  wild  and  piercing  that  the  Englishman 
gave  an  involuntary  start  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  dagger,  while  his  companion,  though 
taken  less  by  surprise,  seemed  to  listen  with 
profound  attention  to  the  echo  that  rang 
through  the  forest's  depths. 

"  In  heaven's  name,  what  sound  was  that  ?" 
asked  the  Englishman,  drawing  a  long  breath. 

"  An  owl,  I  should  think,  and  yet  it  was  too 
shrill  and  keen  for  that,"  replied  the  other, 
bending  his  ear  to  the  ground  for  a  moment, 
as  if  to  catch  the  last  echo,  which,  to  the 


Englishman's  ears,  sounded  like  an  answering 
cry! 

"  No  bird  ever  cried  like  that,"  said  the 
Englishman,  earnestly,  trying  at  the  same 
time  to  pass  through  the  dense  obscurity  that 
now  surrounded  their  path. 

At  that  moment  a  deep,  hoarse  laugh  rang 
in  their  ears,  and  seemingly  uttered  close  be 
hind  them,  so  wild  and  unearthly  in  its  sounds, 
that  both  paused  for  a  moment  where  they 
stood,  then  hurried  forward  at  a'n  accelerated 
speed. 

"  What  do  you  make  of  that  strange  noise  ?" 
asked  the  Englishman.  '.'Are  we  beset  by 
devils,  or  what  strange  influence  is  at  work  to 
terrify  and  bewilder  us  ?" 

"  They  are  strange  and  startling,"  said  the 
other,  still  pressing  on  in  the  darkness. 

"  Are  they  not  new  also  to  you?" 

"  I  have  heard  stories  of  these  woods  being 
haunted,"  said  the  German,  "  but  I  have 
heretofore  given  but  little  faith  to  such  mat 
ters,  and  yet,  when  we  remember  that  it  must 
contain  so  many  dead  bodies  and  fleshless 
skeletons  of  those  persons  the  robbers  have 
slain  in  these  lonely  paths,  why  is  it  not  a 


6S 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


fitting  place  for  ghosts,  if  any  such  spot  there 
be  upon  the  earth  ?"  said  the  other. 

"  It  is  a  very  lonely  spot,  and  there  seems 
to  be  no  end  to  this  path." 

"  Have  courage,"  said  the  student,  "  every 
step  must  lessen  our  distance." 

"  From  our  destination,  I  begin  to  think,  for 
we  must  have  lost  our  way  here." 

As  he  thus  spoke,  again  was  that  terrific 
scream  uttered,  so  shrill  and  near  to  their  ears 
that  the  Englishman  almost  broke  into  a  run, 
in  his  haste  to  hurry  forward. 

"  By  heaven,  but  this  is  very  strange,"  said 
he. 

"  Strange,  indeed,"  said  his  companion, 
pressing  on  his  way, 

"  '  Like  one  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 
And  having  once  turned  round,  walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head  ; 
Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread.' 

"I  would  some  form  might  confront  me 
now,  of  flesh  and  blood  like  ourselves,  or  that 
we  might  have  to  cut  our  way  through  a 
score  of  robbers  well  armed,  so  we  could  but 
see  our  danger,  and  not  be  thus  saluted  at 
every  step  by  unearthly  sounds  and  phantom 
shapes,"  said  the  Englishman,  despondingly. 

The  cold  perspiration  stood  upon  his  brow, 
and  he  seemed  to  feel  physically  that  there 
were  superhuman  influences  about  him,  while 
his  companion  appeared  only  bent  upon  get 
ting  ahead  as  fast  as  possible  on  their  way. 
Suddenly  as  they  thus  hurried  on,  a  dark  body 
crossed  their  path  swiftly,  and  so  close  as  to 
rub  the  persons  of  both  of  the  travellers,  but 
almost  instantly  disappeared  in  the  depth 
and  intricacies  of  the  forest;  yet  not  until 
the  Englishman  had  drawn  forth  and  present 
ed  one  of  his  pistols,  when  just  as  he  was 
about  to  fire,  the  German  turned  one  side, 
saying : 

"  Stay,  are  you  crazy  ?  Surely  you  would 
not  waste  powder  and  ball  upon  such  a  thing 
as  that,  would  you  ?  Do  you  think  that  all 
your  weapons  put  together  could  harm  it  ?" 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  I  know  not,"  said  the 
Englishman,  putting  up  his  weapon  and  breath 
ing  hurriedly.  "It  was  but  the  impulse  of  a 
moment.  Would  to  God  the  banditti  or  any 
other  human  creatures  would  confront  us. 


I  have  no  fear  of  flesh  and  blood,  but  this  is 
terrible — it  unmans  one  at  once." 

"  Let  us  hurry  on,"  said  the  student,  evi 
dently  less  affected  by  these  influences  than 
his  companion.  "  As  I  said  before,  every  step 
brings  us  nearer  to  Bronts,  and  unless  we  has 
ten,  we  may  be  lost  here  entirely,  for  I  see  a 
storm  is  already  gathering,  and  cjouds  are  be 
ginning  to  shut  out  what  little  light  the  stats 
have  been  yielding  us." 

"  It  grows  dark  very  fast,"  said  the  English 
man,  watching  the  thronging  .clouds  over 
head. 

"  We  shall  have  the  storm  upon  us  direct 
ly,"  said  the  other. 

This  was  indeed  the  case,  and  each  moment 
the  road  grew  less  and  less  distinct,  until  the 
travellers  became  aware  that  they  must  have 
lost  the  beaten  track  by  some  means,  for  they 
were  now  half  climbing,  half  stumbling  over 
an  uneven  and  broken  path,  that  they  could 
only  feel  their  way  over.  Already,  though  of 
vigorous  form,  the  Englishman  breathed  deep 
and  heavily  from  fatigue,  though  doubtless  the 
mental  annoyance  he  had  experienced  had  done 
more  to  produce  this  than  the  physical  strength 
he  had  expended  in  his  efforts  to  advance  on  . 
their  way. 

To  add  to  the  dread  and  discomfort  which 
beset  them  in  their  passage  of  the  forest,  loud 
peals  of  thunder  began  to  startle  them  and  to 
reverberate  through  the  woods  with  terrific 
violence  and  ominous  echoes.  Now  and  then 
the  vivid  lightning  would  flash  across  their 
path,  and  lighting  its  most  minute  parts  for  a 
moment,  reveal  to  them  the  gloomy  and  rocky 
way  they  trod ;  and  then  all  was  once  more 
suddenly  shrouded  in  the  almost  tangible 
darkness,  so  dense  did  it  appear  to  them.  It 
required  a  most  persevering  spirit  to  bear  one 
up  against  such  a  combination  of  untoward 
circumstances.  The  student  did  not  seem  to 
quail  much,  though  he  showed  some  signs  of 
fatigue,  and  grumbled  at  the  extraordinary 
darkness.  He  seemed  evidently  more  used 
to  such  scenes  than  the  Englishman,  who  ap 
peared  almost  discouraged. 

"Hold,"  said  the  latter,  in  a  voice  of  des 
pair  ;  "  let  us  stop  here,  for  we  know  not 
whither  we  are  going,  and  may  be  only  plung 
ing  deeper  and  deeper  into  this  accursed 
forest.  Let  us  stop  here,  I  say,  until  the 
morning,  or  we  shall  spend  what  little  strength 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


69 


we  have  left,  to  no  purpose  but  our  own 
harm." 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet,"  said  the  student,  ear 
nestly,  "  not  yet,  a  littlejonger." 

"  But  why  ?  Does  not  the  path  each  mo 
ment  grow  worse  and  worse  ?" 

"  True,"  said  the  other,  "  but  twice  have  I 
seen  what  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  lamp  through 
the  darkness  and  the  trees.  I  think  we  are 
approaching  it  fast,  so  let  us  press  on  at  least 
a  while  longer." 

"A  few  moments,  to  satisfy  you,  but  no 
more,"  said  the  Englishman. 

"Th»re,  see  you  nothing  just  here  through 
these  trucks  ?"  asked  the  student. 

"  Stay,  I  do  see  something,  but  it  is  gone 
again  ;  did  it  seem  to  you  a  light  ?" 

"  Yes,  now  and  then  obscured  by  some  ob 
ject  passing  before  it,"  said  the  other. 

Still  they  passed  on,  until  at  last  the  Eng 
lishman  also  distinctly  saw  the  light  referred 
to,  and  though  they  knew  not  from  whence  it 
came,  whether  from  friend  or  foe,  the  English 
man  felt  strangely  gladdened  at  heart  by  the 
sight,  after  the  trials  that  they  had  just  expe 
rienced.  The  rough  way  no  longer  seemed 
painful  to  accomplish,  their  steps  were  freer 
now,  and  their  spirits  came  back  again  as  the 
light  grew  more  and  more  distinct  before  their 
gazing  eyes,  until  both,  in  their  satisfaction, 
began  to  joke  at  their  late  uneasiness  arid 
fear  of  unknown  danger. 

As  they  went  on,  the  light  which  had  guid 
ed  them  so  far,  seemed  to  change  in  appear 
ance  and  shape,  and  now  to  become  merged 
into  a  number  of  different  ones,  and  proving  it 
to  be  yet  a  long  distance  off.  The  truth  was, 
that  the  light  they  had  seen  was  the  combined 
blaze  of  a  number,  which  at  a  great  distance 
seemed  to  be  but  one,  but  which  on  a  nearer 
approach,  assumed  their  individual  distinct 
ness.  Thus  encouraged,  they  no  longer  flag 
ged,  but  put  forth  every  effort  to  press  onward, 
until  at  last  they  came  out  upon  a  clear,  open 
piece  of  ground  in  the  wood,  and  just  at  the 
base  of  an  ascending  hill  or  large  rock,  from 
a  cave  in  which  the  light  issued. 

Both  paused  to  gaze  for  a  moment  upon  the 
scene  that  presented  itself  to  their  eyes. 

The  mouth  of  a  large  cave  was  before  them, 
lighted  up  by  hanging  lanterns,  and  its  en 
trance  guarded  by  a  sentinel,  who  leaned 
within  the  shelter  upon  his  carbine,  in  a  half 


dreamy  mood.  The  mouth  of  the  cavern 
opened  immediately  upon  the  clearing  referred 
to,  which  covered  some  acre  or  more  of  soft 
green  sward,  a  spot  evidently  redeemed  at 
great  labor  by  the  hand  of  men,  from  the 
densest  part  of  the  forest. 

At  this  moment  the  sentinel,  who  must 
have  been  half  asleep  upon  his  weapon,  sud 
denly  discovered  them,  sprang  forward  and 
levelled  his  carbine  at  them,  and  by  the  click 
of  the  lock,  was  evidently  about  to  fire,  when 
this  was  prevented  by  the  student,  who  raised 
his  cap,  and  said  : 

"  It  is  well,  Carli ;  your  vigilance  is  com 
mendable,  but  you  need  not  fire  !" 

The  man  recovered  his  weapon  almost  as 
quickly  as  he  had  assumed  the  threatening 
attitude,  and  lifting  his  cap  respectfully,  stood 
on  one  side  for  the  travellers  to  enter  the  cave. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  asked  the  English 
man,  turning  to  his  companion. 

"  That  we  are  to  shelter  here  for  the  night," 
said  the  other,  carelessly. 

"  But  this  seem?  to  be  a  strong  hold  of 
robbers,"  said  the  Englishman. 

"  Well." 

"  But  it  is  not  well,  that  we  become  volun 
tarily  prisoners  here." 

"  There  is  no  other  resort  for  us  now,"  said 
the  other,  eoolly. 

"  It  is  walking  into  the  lion's  jaws,  to  seek 
for  a  shelter  here." 

"  What  would  you  do — once  more  attempt 
the  forest  path  in  the  dark  ?" 

"  But  you  seem  to  be  known  here,"  said 
the  Englishman,  inquiringly, 

"  I  am." 

"  And  who  are  you  ?"  asked  the  English 
man,  in  amazement. 

"  Karl  Blasius  !" 

"  The    robber  ?"   asked  the  other. 

"  Yes,  if  the  title  suits  you  ;  at  all  events, 
I  am  captain  of  this  free  band." 

The  bearing  of  the  traveller  was  at  once 
wholly  changed.  He  assumed  the  authority 
that  was  most  evidently  his  right,  and  the 
Englishman  found  that  he  was  at  once  to  con 
sider  himself  a  prisoner,  while  an  under  officer 
suggested  to  him  that  he  would  trouble  him 
for  his  pack  and  such  weapons  as  he  might 
have  in  his  possession. 

Resistance  would  have  been  fool-hardy,  and 
therefore  the  Englishman  quietly  submitted. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


LADY    GUSTINE    AND    THE   JEW. 


See  how  the  skillful  lover  spreads  his  toils. 


STILLINGFLEET. 


IT  was  midnight  in  the  gay  city  of  Bronts, 
and  the  streets  shone  like  a  star,  so  brightly 
were  the  windows  of  the  nobility  illuminated, 
while  from  many,  soft  music  stole  out  upon 
the  evening  air,  of  most  bewitchfng  melody. 
But  the  reader  must  come  with  us  to  this  lofty 
old  pile  that  skirts  the  river's  bank  upon  the 
overhanging  bank  or  rock.  It  is  the  castle  of 
Ghertstein,  belonging  to  the  noble  family  of 
that  name,  who  held  a  prominent  place  on  the 
page  of  history  that  records  the  times  gone 
by  in  that  valley.  . 

It  was  one  of  those  fine  old  piles  of  the 
past,  the  token  of  feudal  power  and  wealth, 
such  as  cover  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  from  its 
rise  to  its  mingling  with  the  bosom  of  the 
ocean  itself. 

The  banquetingn  hall  was  one  blaze  of  light 
and  beauty,  and  the  princely  company  were  bu 
sy  in  the  mazes  of  the  giddy  dance  and  waltz. 
Arms  were  encircling  slender  taper  waists,  and 
eyes  fraught  with  tender  homage  were  drink 
ing  from  the  blue  depths  of  lovely  and  be 
witching  glances.  The  dazzling  light  cast 
from  the  gorgeous  chandeliers,  the  glittering 
ornaments  of  the  spacious  rooms,  the  brilliant 
mirrors  reflecting  back  the  white  arms  and 


heaving  bosoms  of  the  owners  of  those  be 
witching  eyes,  all,  all  together  seemed  like 
some  fairy  picture  of  enchantment, — a  spot 
where  joy  and  regal  mirth  reigned  supreme, 
and  the  hearts  of  the  dancers  were  as  light 
as  their  feet. 

Now  there  passes  by  the  most  lovely  form 
of  all  amidst  this  array  of  beauty,  the  fair 
daughter  of  this  noble  house  of  Ghertstein, 
leaning  familiarly  upon  the  arm  of  the  noblest 
looking  gentleman  of  all  the  goodly  throng 
about  them. 

The  lady  herself  was  the  last  represen 
tative  of  a  long  line  of  ancestors,  the  last 
scion  of  a  noble  house.  They  seemed  to  the 
casual  observer  to  be  most  happily  matched, 
in  those  outward  evidences  that  meet  the  eye. 
The  lady  might  have  seen  eighteen  summers, 
while  her  companion  could  count  but  little 
over  twenty.  It  was  not  alone  the  sweet  ex 
pressiveness  of  the  lady's  features  that  con 
stituted  her  beauty.  This  gave  it  a  gentle 
and  intellectual  cast;  but  the  high,  clear  fore 
head,  the  majestic  carriage,  and  the  deep 
blue  eyes,  in  perfect  accordance  with  the  ex 
pression,  gave  also  to  it  a  dignity  and  high 
toned  beauty  all  its  own. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


71 


Her  companion  had  the  figure  of  an  Indian 
Apollo,  with  eyes  and  features  that  compared 
well  with  her  at  his  side,  while  his  bearing  was 
no  less  free  and  dignified  than  the  lady's,  and  in 
his  every  movement  was  written  the  very 
tone  of  command.  He  listened,  with  undis 
guised  devotedness,  to  every  word  that  fell 
from  the  lips  of  her  by  his  side,  and  she  in 
turn  seemed  to  dwell  with  pleasure  upon  the 
full,  manly,  and  musical  tones  of  his  voice. — 
They  have  already  danced  thrice  together, 
and  fatigued  with  the  exertion,  the  lady  now 
seeks  the  retirement  of  an  alcove,  from  which 
there  was  a  slight  projecting  balcony,  over 
looking  the  river  far  below.  She  seated  her 
self  for  a  moment  in  the  soft,  refreshing  cool 
ness,  that  swept  like  a  gentle  trade  wind 
through  the  valley. 

"  I  fear  you  are  fatigued,"  said  the  gentle 
man,  with  tender  solicitude. 

"  0,  no,"  said  the  lady,  panting  to  regain 
the  breath  she  had  expended  in  the  waltz. 

There  was  a  pause  for  a  moment  between 
them,  while  the  gentleman's  eye  seemed  fixed 
upon  the  scene  below,  and  his  thoughts  to  be 
wandering  far  away  from  the  spot. 

"Mr.  Stanley,  your  eyes  seem  rivetted 
upon  the  water  to-night." 

"  Did  you  speak  ?"  he  asked,  seeming  to 
recall  himself  from  some  absorbing  thought. 

"  I  remarked  your  eyes  seem  rivetted  upon 
the  scene  below;  are  "you  dreaming?" 

"  O,  no,  lady,"  he  replied,  striving  to  recov 
er  himself ;  "  I — I  was  thinking  how  truly  the 
passage  of  yonder  tiny  craft  resembles  that 
of  our  own  life  bark  on  the  tide  of  time." 

"  And  how  ?" 

"  See  you  not  how  quietly  its  hull  is  borne 
along  with  the  current  ?  Not  even  the  sail 
is  set,  and  the  helmsman  nods  at  his  post. — 
There  is  not  a  ripple  beneath  the  prow  ;  she 
moves  bodily  with  the  tide  itself,  silently,  but 
quickly,  to  the  end  of  the  river,  and  anon  she 
will  be  in  the  ocean  beyond." 

"  Well,"  said  the  lady,  interested  in  the 
tone  and  manner,  as  much  as  in  the  subject  of 
his  conversation. 

"  Thus  are  we  moving  now,  lady,  rapidly, 
with  silent,  but  steady,  and  never  ceasing  mo 
tion,  down  the  swift  river  of  time,  that  sets 
through  the  valley  of  life  ;  all  unconsciously  we 
glide  on,  nodding  like  this  same  helmsman, 
indifferently,  as  we  hold  the  rudder  that  guides 


our  own  fate — while  we  swiftly  approach  the 
ocean  of  eternity." 

"  You  color  highly,  Mr.  Stanley,"  said  the 
lady,  thoughtfully. 

"  But  truthfully,  I  trust;  have  I  not  spoken 
truly,  lady  ?» 

"Doubtless,"  she  replied,  and  then  con 
tinued,  as  her  mind  evidently  followed  out  the 
thoughts  that  her  companion's  mind  had  sug 
gested.  "  And  so  you  believe,  Mr.  Stanley, 
that  when  the  river  is  passed,  and  we  come 
at  last  to  that  ocean  beyond,  that  it  will  then 
be  a  sunny  sea,  as  yonder  craft  may  find  with 
the  promises  of  this  star-light  night;  or  shall 
many  of  us  meet  with  storms,  and  perhaps 
even  be  wrecked  ?" 

"  I  believe  that  there  will  be  no  wrecks 
upon  that  sea.  The  high  waters  of  life 
are  sufficiently  fraught  with  disasters  and 
misery.  The  life  to  come  must  surely  be  a 
haven  of  rest.  But  we  are  getting  serious, 
and  talking  of  subjects  that  would  better  fit  us 
in  the  cloister  than  the  ball-room.  Shall  we 
enter  again  ?" 

"  Observe  you  how  attentive  and  constant 
this  young  Stanley  is  to  our  lady,  the  fair  Gus- 
tine  ?"  asked  one  of  the  young  gentlemen  of 
another,  as  the  two  came  once  more  into  the 
room  from  the  balcony. 

"  Ay,  he  seems  to  share  her  undivided  at 
tention  to-night,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Not  much  of  a  compliment  to  us,"  said 
the  first  speaker.  "  The  fact  is,  these  English 
men  come  hither  from  London,  and  think  to 
carry  all  things  after  their  own  taste  and 
fashion." 

"  That's  true  ;  and  somehow  or  other  they 
generally  manage  to  succeed." 

"  But  who  is  the  gentleman,  do  you  know  ?" 
asked  the  first  speaker.  "Is  he  of  gentle 
blood,  or  has  he  any  marked  claim  upon  the 
courtesy  of  such  a  lady  as  the  heiress  of  this 
house  ?" 

"  I  only  know  that  he  is  Robert  Stanley,  as  ' 
my  lord  introduced  him  to  me,  and  that  he 
brings  with  him  good  letters  of  introduction 
from  high  sources  in  England." 

"  It  can't  be  denied  that  he's  a  fine  looking 
fellow." 

"  Yes,  but  yet  I  don't  half  like  his  way  of 
addressing  one,  it's  overbearing." 

"  Never  mind  that.    I  speak  of  his  good  looks, 
at  this  moment,  for  instance  as  he  dances  with 


72 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


lady  Gustine.  Fortf  heaven,  but  they  are  a 
noble  dtouple." 

"  That  is  a  fact,  and  well  matched  as  far 
as  looks  go,"  said  the  other. 

"  See,  they  sit  down  again  together,  and 
now  the  lady  smiles  upon  him ;  he  has  a  free 
and  ready  tongue,  and  dwells  upon  the  beau 
ties  of  her  native  valley  like  one  born  in  it, 
and  speaks  the  language  as  well." 

"Yes,  he's  a  ready  dog,"  said  the  other, 
with  a  jealous  sneer. 

"  By  the  mass,  but  I  envy  the  Englishman," 
continued  the  other,  honestly.  "  Think  you 
his  blood  is  good  enough  to  warrant  such  con 
nection  with  the  noble  house  of  Ghertstein,  as 
this  intimacy  might  in  the  end  lead  to  ?  Half 
the  assembly  think  them  engaged  already." 

"  Your  true  Englishman  feels  good  enough 
in  blood  for  any  one,  though  to  speak  honest 
ly  of  yonder  gallant,  he  comes  of  a  knightly 
family,  and  is  vastly  rich  withal." 

"  Perhaps  that  last  clause  is  the  secret  of 
my  lord's  quiet  acquiescence." 

"  True,  I  didn't  think  of  that." 

"  You  know  the  coffers  of  Ghertstein  are 
not  bottomless,  and  would  well  bear  replenish 
ing." 

Robert  Stanley  was  the  son  of  an  English 
family  of  high  standing,  and  having,  as  his 
letters  represented,  finished  his  studies  at 
home,  he  was  now  passing  a  couple  of  years 
ia  travel  upon  the  continent,  for  amusement 
and  information.  Having  letters,  as  it  appear 
ed,  to  many  of  the  first  families  of  Bronts,  he 
had  tarried  here  for  some  weeks,  having  free 
access  to  a  circle  that  brought  him  often  into 
the  society  of  the  lady  Gustine,  until  the  days 
prescribed  for  his  stay  wore  away,  and  he 
found  that  he  had  already  lost  his  heart  to 
the  fair  being  by  his  side.  There  seemed  to 
be  a  mysterious  influence  prompting  him,  some 
secret  regret  or  fear  that  influenced  his  mind, 
,  and  which  betrayed  itself  to  those  who  watched 
him  narrowly.  But  he  was  warmly  received, 
and  made  many  friends  in  the  circle  to  which 
he  had  became  introduced,  even  in  the  short 
period  that  he  had  been  here. 

"  Dear  lady,"  he  said,  "  I  find,  now  the 
period  has  arrived  when  I  must  prepare  to 
leave  this  fair  city,  that  I  am  tied  to  it  by 
strong,  yet  silken  bonds,  so  profuse  is  the  hos 
pitality  that  has  greeted  me  on  every  hand,  so 
dear  and  tender  the  associations  that  already 


cluster  so  thickly,  and  so  twine  themselves 
about  my  heart,  in  the  memory  of  each  pleas 
ant  hour  that  I  have  passed  here." 

"  Our  lovely  valley  seems  ever  to  enchant 
your  countrymen,  as  with  a  most  potent  spell," 
said  the  lady  Gustine,  smiling  at  the  earnest 
ness  with  which  he  spoke. 

"  True,  lady,  though  not  for  its  picturesque 
beauties  of  landscape  alone,  but  for  the  fair 
beings  who  dwell  on  its  river's  banks,  and  un 
der  its  castle's  fairy  halls,  by  their  enchanting 
power." 

"  You  are  inclined  to  flattery,  I  think,  Mr. 
Stanley,"  said  the  lady. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  lady,  I  speak  only  the 
honest  promptings  of  the  heart." 

The  lady  smiled  again,  half  incredulously, 
half  archly,  then  turned  once  more  to  the 
throng  about  her.  It  was  very  evident  to  a 
careful  observer  that  although  the  stranger 
was  most  constant  and  devoted  to  her,  yet  she 
seemed  only  pleased,  not  charmed  with  him. 
That  she  was  interested  in  him,  was  equally 
evident,  and  also  that  she  enjoyed  the  society 
of  one  so  well  informed,  so  free  and  original 
in  conversation,  and  who  appreciated  so  keen 
ly  the  peculiar  beauties  of  her  native  valley. 
The  lady  Gustine  was  no  coquette,  and  yet 
the  devoted  and  assiduous  attention  of  such  a 
man  could  not  but  minister  in  some  degree  to 
her  pride ;  nor  did  she  feel  that  she  was  sacri 
ficing  any  principle  of  right  in  receiving,  and 
perhaps  slightly  encouraging,  those  gentle  at 
tentions. 

This  was  the  true  relationship  that  existed 
between  him  known  as  Kobert  Stanley,  and  the 
lady  Gustine. 

It  is  market-day  in  Bronts,  the  streets  and 
squares  being  thronged  by  merchants  and  ven 
ders  of  all  degrees  and  conditions ;  market- 
women  in  their  gay  dresses  are  driving  hiiher 
and  thither,  and  trading  Jews  and  rich  brokers 
are  threading  their  way  among  the  busy 
throng  of  human  beings.  Here  are  humble 
peasants  staring  with  wonder  stricken  counten 
ances  at  the  profuse  display  of  finery  and  gew 
gaws,  and  here  trips  by  a  pretty  village  girl, 
come  to  town  to  see  all  the  wonders  of  Bronts. 
Loud  laughter  and  merry  jests  rang  out  from 
the  assembled  throats,  and  the  occasion,  like 
that  of  similar  meetings  all  over  Europe,  was 
a  real  gala  day. 

Among  this  motley  throng  of  humanity,  an 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


73 


observant  eye  might  have  noticed  two  or  three 
men,  whom,  had  they  followed,  they  might 
have  noticed  to  be  working  for  some  extra 
ordinary  purpose  in  concert.  One  was  dress 
ed  as  a  humble  peasant  of  the  mountains,  an 
other  seemed  to  have  driven  some  cattle  to 
market,  and  having  disposed  of  them,  was 
now  strolling  about,  whip  in  hand,  among  the 
crowd  for  his  own  pleasure.  A  third  was 
clothed  in  a  citizen's  dress,  and  seemed  to  be 
a  mere  looker-on  at  this  motley  picture.  Add 
ed  to  these,  still  another,  to  whom  the  rest 
seemed  to  pay  no  little  deference,  and  indeed 
from  whom  they  appeared  to  receive  their  in 
structions. 

He  was  dressed  in.  the  long  hanging  gar 
ments  and  cloth  cap  of  the  Jewish  costume, 
while  a  grizzly  beard  swept  his  breast;  still, 
although  age  had  seemingly  laid  its  stamp 
upon  his  brow,  his  step  was  firm,  and  his 
form  erect;  nor  did  his  large  quick  eye 
permit  anything  to  escape  its  vision.  He  ap 
peared  to  be  one  of  the  brokers  who  infest  the 
large  squares  of  the  city  on  such  occasions  as 
the  present,  and  seemed  to  a  casual  observer, 
to  be  in  the  quiet  occupation  of  his  trade  as  a 
money  changer.  But  one  of  the  three,  of 
whom  we  have  spoken,  now  approached  him, 
as  if  by,  accident,  or  as  though  he  wished  to 
consult  him  upon  some  business  relating  to 
his  calling,  when  he  who  wore  the  garb  of 
a  Jew,  said  : 

"  Carli." 

"  Captain." 

"  Mark  yonder  tradesman  bending  at  the 
jeweller's  stall." 

"  With  the  scarlet  doublet  ?"  asked  the  oth 
er,  trying  to  make  out  the  person  referred  to. 

"  Ay.  He  leaves  town  this  afternoon,  I 
have  learned,  and  with  a  heavy  purse." 

"  By  what  route,  captain  ?" 

"  He  must  be  met  at  the  northern  pass,  and 
be  relieved  of  his  purse.  You  have  your  or 
ders." 

'•  I  understand,  captain,"  said  the  other, 
respectfully,  "  but  here  is  a  rich  merchant 
from  Aix-la-Chapelle,  who  is  actually  weigh 
ed  down  with  doubloons  and  ounces.  I  have 
had  my  eye  on  him  for  the  last  hour,  and  was 
following  him  when  1  saw  your  signal.  Per 
haps  I  had  better — " 

"  Obey  orders  !"  said  the  other,  sternly,  as 
he  turned  his  eye  upon  the  man  with  an  ex 


pression   that   seemed   to    thrill    the    fellow 
through,  as  he  went  submissively  away. 

Another  and  another  joined  him  at  inter 
vals,  who  wore  the  Jew's  garb,  and  received  or 
ders  not  dissimilar  to  that  just  related,  one  of 
.them  concerning  the  merchant  from  Aix-la- 
Chapelle,  already  referred  to,  and  who  had 
not  escaped  the  quick,  searching  glances  of 
the  robber  chief,  for  such  he  evidently  was. — 
At  last  the  Jew  turned  out  of  the  square  on  to 
the  high  road  that  leads  towards  the  moun 
tains,  and  along  which,  with  staff  in  hand,  he 
pursued  his  way,  as  though  seeking  his  home 
after  the  close  of  the  day's  business. 

Scarcely  had  the  Jew  left  the  din  and  bus 
tle  of  the  scene  we  have  described  behind  him, 
when  looking  up  he  discovered  approaching 
him,  and  at  no  great  distance,  a  party  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  who  had  evidently  been  seek 
ing  equestrian  exercise  among  the  hills  and 
vales  tha*  border  the  river's  course.  They 
must  pass  him  in  the  road  very  nearly,  and 
he  seemed  to  realize  and  dread  this,  for  some 
reason  best  known  to  himself,  since  he  plainly 
evinced  much  uneasiness  of  manner  and  ner 
vous  trepidation,  while  his  face  seemed  at  one 
time  to  blanch  as  though  fear  had  completely 
chilled  his  blood.  But  on  came  the  gallant 
party  in  high  spirits;  their  prancing  steeds 
showing  by  their  impatience  of  the  restraint 
they  felt  under  the  curb,  the  fire  and  mettle 
that  coursed  in  their  veins. 

At  the  head  of  this  fair  company,  rode  the 
lord  of  Ghertstein,  in  all  the  pride  of  the  class 
to  which  he  belonged.  He  was  a  fine  look 
ing  man,  with  a  military  aspect,  and  his  gray 
hair  gave  him  a  rather  venerable  appearance, 
though  he  was  but  little  past  fifty  years  of 
age.  He  sat  on  his  horse  with  a  princely  air, 
and  like  one  who  had  been  accustomed  to  the 
saddle  from  his  youth.  By  her  father's  side, 
rode  the  fair  lady  Gustine,  the  natural  hue 
of  her  cheek  heightened  to  a  glowing  color  by 
the  vigor  of  exercise,  and  her  eyes  beaming 
with  spirit. 

As  the  party  approached  still  nearer  the  Jew, 
he  seemed,  by  an  extraordinary  struggle,  to 
regain  his  self-possession,  and  to  assume  once 
more,  successfully,  the  plodding  and  uncon 
cerned  air  of  an  ordinary  trader,  on  his  way 
homeward  after  the  labors  of  the  day,  and 
now  as  they  dashed  by  his  very  side,  he  bow 
ed  humbly  to  the  noble  throng,  and  was  soon 


74 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


left  far  behind.  And  yet  they  did  not  pass 
him  so  swiftly,  but  that  he  heard  the  lady 
Gustine  say  to  her  father  : 

"  Did  you  note  that  Jew,  my  lord  ?"  at  the 
same  time  turning  slightly,  to  get  a  second 
glance  at  him. 

"  I  noticed  that  we  passed  one  of  the  race, 
nothing  more,"  said  the  father. 

"  It  is  strange !"  said  the  lady  Gustine,  half 
reining  up  her  horse,  and  musing. 

"  What  is  strange,  my  child  ?"  asked  her 
father,  regarding  her  closely. 

"  Why,  that  th%  man's  eye  should  have 
struck  me  so  particularly,"  she  replied. 

"  How  so,  my  child  1"  asked  the  lord  of 
Ghertstein. 

"  They  seemed  so  familiar  to  me,  and  to 
awake  such  undefined  memories  as  I  cannot 
describe,"  she  replied,  still  musing  absently 
within  herself. 

"  Bouse  up,  my  child,  you  are  dreaming," 
said  the  lord  of  Ghertstein,  smiling  at  the 
earnestness  of  expression  that  he  saw  depicted 
in  his  daughter's  face. 

"Indeed  it  was  no  dream,"  she  replied, 
thoughtfully,  but  tapping  her  horse  with  the 
riding  whip,  he  sprang  into  an  easy  hand  gal 
lop,  and  followed  by  her  friends,  she  thus  en 
tered  the  town. 

Of  course,  the  Jew  heard  only  the  first 
words  of  the  dialogue  between  the  lady  Gus 
tine  and  her  father,  but  that  which  he  had 
overheard,  seemed  once  more  to  revive  his 
agitation  of  manner,  and  he  hurried  forward 
with  accelerated  speed  towards  the  summit  of 
the  hill  before  him.  Once  or  twice  he  turned 
his  head  to  look  after  the  receding  forms  of 
the  party  referred  to,  with  a  nervous  air,  as 
though  he  half  feared  they  would  turn  and 
follow  him,  and  though  he  still  continued  to 
meet  other  parties,  and  be  overtaken  by  many, 
yet  he  did  not  heed  them  at  all.  His  thoughts 
had  evidently  flown  away  with  the  party 
among  whom  rode  the  lady  Gustine.  Some 
strange  interest  seemed  to  relate  to  them,  as 
it  regarded  himself. 

Having  reached  the  height  of  the  nearest 
elevation,  he  seemed  to  single  out  the  party 
on  the  river  road,  as  it  wound  on  its  way  up 
to  the  crag  on  which  stood  the  ancient  castle 
of  Gherlstein,  nor  did  he  move  from  the  spot 
until  he  had  seen  the  cortege  wind  its  way 
beneath  the  lofty  portals  of  the  old  gate. 


*  Lost  in  reverie,  the  Jew  hastened  forward, 
heeding  nothing  that  passed  him,  until  he 
came  to  a  fork  of  the  road,  where  he  turned 
to  the  lower  or  river  route,  as  though  he 
would  follow  it,  but  soon  after  he  struck  into 
the  woods,  and  was  at  once-  lost  in  the  paths 
of  the  thick  forest. 

Between  the  time  that  the  Jew  had  lost 
sight  of  the  party  referred  to,  and  that  when 
he  once  more  discovered  them  winding  up  the 
craggy  ascent,  they  had  paused  in  the  market 
place  of  the  city,  to  see  the  graceful  but  gro 
tesque  dance  of  a  tamborine  girl,  accompanied 
by  one  who  seemed  to  be  a  blind  fiddler. — 
The  girl  was  quite  young,  and  presented  the 
very  picture  of  good  health  and  rural  beauty. 
Her  deep  blue  eyes  were  full  of  light  hearted- 
ness;  her  cheeks  were  like  the  rose  itself  in 
color,  and  her  childlike  figure  was  light  and 
well  formed.  The  child  saw  the  party  pause 
to  note  her,  and  turning  her  steps  towards 
them,  as  also  had  her  friend,  the  musician, 
who  soon  commenced  to  play,  while  the  girl 
danced  to  the  united  music  of  his  instrument 
and  the  ringing  notes  of  her  tamborine,  hung 
with  tiny  brass  bells. 

"  By  our  lady,  but  the  child  dances  well," 
said  the  lord  of  Ghertstein. 

"Charmingly,"  said  Gustine,  making  a 
sign  for  her  to  approach,  as  she  closed  her 
dance,  and  as  she  did  so,  tossing  a  piece  of  gold 
into  her  extended  tamborine. 

"  Is  he  thou  leadest  thy  father  ?"  asked  the 
lady. 

"  Only  an  humble  friend,"  replied  the  girl, 
courtseying. 

"Is  he  blind?" 

The  girl  bowed  an  assent. 

Amid  a  cheer  from  the  crowd,  the  party 
dashed  off  through  the  town. 

Had  the  lady  Gustine  scrutinized  him  whom 
the  girl  pretended  to  lead  as  a  blind  man,  she 
could  have  discovered  that  his  sight  was  as 
quick  and  faithful  as  her  own,  and  that  the 
blindness  was  but  a  feint  to  some  object  even 
beyond  that  of  the  small  sums  that  charitable 
persons  might  thus  be  induced  to  give.  As 
night  drew  on,  both  the  girl  and  the  musician 
turned  their  steps  away  from  the  market-place, 
and  passed  out  upon  the  high  road  together, 
taking  the  same  route  that  the  Jew  had  pur 
sued,  even  after  they  entered  the  shades  of  the 
forest. 


CHAPTER    XIV 


THE  BANDIT'S  STORY. 


Why  did  she  love  him? — curious  fool,  be  etill! 
la  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will  ? 
To  her  he  might  be  gentleness  ! 


BYRON. 


THE  reader  must  return  with  us  to  the  rob 
ber's  cave  in  the  forest  where  we  left  the  En 
glishman,  after  his  long  and  fearful  passage 
over  the  broken  and  mysterious  route.  He 
was  not  one  to  look  on  the  dark  side  of  any 
subject,  and  finding  that  he  was  treated  as  a 
prisoner,  and  that  no  remonstrance  was  of  any 
avail,  like  a  true  philosopher,  he  strove  to  make 
himself  as  comfortable  under  the  circumstances 
as  was  possible.  At  the  time  when  we  would 
introduce  the  reader  to  the  cave,  he  sat  near 
its  mouth  just  inside  the  sentinel  who  guarded 
the  entrance  with  a  loaded  carbine. 

"  Your  country  is  full  of  story  and  romance," 
said  the  Englisman  to  the  sentinel. 

"Yes,  Mein  Herr,"  replied  the  robber, 
"  there's  not  even  a  child  in  the  whole  land 
but  has  its  head  crammed  with  tales  and  old 
legends  of  the  valley.  Did  you  notice,  for  in 
stance,  the  old  ruined  tower  in  the  middle  of  the 
river  upon  a  little  island,  n^t  far  above  Bronts  ?" 

"  I  saw  it  four  weeks  since,  when  I  passed 
over  the  road,"  said  the  Englishman,  "  but  it 
was  evening,  and  I  had  only  the  twilight  to 
aid  my  view.  But  what  of  the  olrlpile  ?" 

"  It  is  called  Butha's  town,"  continued  the 
robber.  "  Jf  you  have  a  fancy  that  way,  I'll 
tell  you  its  story." 


"Nothing  would  suit  me  better,  just  now/' 
replied  the  prisoner. 

The  sentinel  who  was  then  on  duty,  was 
the  same  who  had  held  that  post  when  the  Enr 
glishman  first  entered  the  cave.  His  name 
was  Carli,  and  his  own  story,  as  told  to  the 
prisoner  one  day,  was  fraught  with  romance. 
He  possessed  a  very  good  education,  and  un 
til  some  five-and-twenty  years  of  his  life  had 
passed,  was  the  universal  favorite  of  a  brilliant 
circle  of  friends.  But  in  an  unlucky  moment 
he  outraged  the  laws  by  a  sudden  act  of  vio 
lence,  and  from  that  time  became  an  outcast, 
and  for  the  sake  of  self-preservation  joined  the 
banditti.  The  Englishman  could  discern  by 
his  language  and  manner  that  he  had  been 
born  and  bred  a  gentleman,  and  that  there 
were  many  noble  traits  that  but  slumbered  in 
his  bosom. 

Carli  seated  himself  on  a  rough  bench,  and 
crossing  his  limbs  over  his  carbine,  began  :. 

"A  long  time  since,"  commenced  Carli, 
"  there  was  a  famous  noble  chief  known  by  the 
name  of  Plaitzerthe  bold.  He  was  still  quite 
a  young  man  when  the  fame  of  his  exploits 
filled  all  the  country  round  about  his  rendez 
vous.  It  was  said  that  he  came  of  a  gentle 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


family,  and  that  some  deed  of  wrong  drove 
him  forth  into  the  wilderness  to  despoil  those 
who  had  despoiled  him  before,  I  do  not  recol 
lect  now  what  it  was,  but  it  was  some  act  of 
cruelty  which  turns  men's  blood  to  flame;  for 
those  were  days  when  no  law  was  acknowl 
edged  but  castle  law,  and  the  might  of  the 
sword's  blow.  But  Plaitzer  had  a  noble  dis 
position,  and  scorned  petty  game,  aiming 
chiefly  at  the  nobles,  whom  he  hated.  It  was 
but  rarely  that  he  meddled  with  peaceable 
burghers  or  single  travellers;  and  then  only 
when  his  men  were  hard  pressed  for  means, 
and  were  perhaps  getting  a  little  refractory. 

"  Plaitzer's  quarters  were  mostly  in  the  for 
est  that  skirts  the  river  some  leagues  above 
here,  and  latterly  it  was  seldom  that  he  ven 
tured  his  band  towards  the  river's  banks,  for 
his  name  and  person,  together  with  those  of 
his  troops,  had  got  to  be  so  noted,  and  the 
chain  of  communication  between  *hs  chief 
tains,  whose  castles  overlooked  the  Rhine, 
was  so  complete,  that  the  band  of.  robbers 
dreaded  to  make  themselves  too  conspicuous 
by  venturing  forth  unduly. 

"  The  Lord  of  Eiswaldt  was,  doubtless,  well 
assured  of  the  safety  of  his  own  neighborhood, 
and  therefore  thought  of  no  danger  when  suf 
fering  his  daughter,  the  fair  Butha,  to  set  out 
with  a  small  escort  for  the  burgher  town  of 
Ransfeld,  about  a  league  distant  from  his  cas 
tle  gates.  The  route,  after  leaving  the  cas 
tle's  height,  was  mostly  over  a  regular  decliv 
ity,  with  hardly  a  tree  to  break  the  prospect, 
but  midway  from  the  castle  ^o  the  town,  the 
road  sank  into  a  slight  hollow,  and  rising  again 
from  thence  continued  without  further  variety 
to  its  termination.  It  was  in  this  hollow  that 
the  company  that  formed  Butha's  escort  were 
attacked  by  a  party  of  Plaitzer's  band.  The 
craven  guard  dispersed  in  every  direction,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  who  were  made  pris 
oners  by  the  robbeis.  Plaitzer,  who  had  been 
engaged  in  another  quarter,  came  up  with  the 
rest  of  the  band  just  as  the  robbers  were  about 
to  despoil  the  terrified  maiden  of  her  jewels. 

"  '  Hold,  villains  !' shouted  the  enraged  chief 
tain,  in  a  voice  of  thunder.  '  Have  I  not  charg 
ed  you  not  to  meddle  with  the  poor,  nor  with 
helpless  women  ?  Desist  or  die  !' 

<l  The  terrified  ruffians  recoiled,  and  Plaitzer 
approaching  the  trembling  girl,  addressed  her 
in  courteous  speech,  entreating  her  to  cast 


away  all  fear,  and  restoring  the  jewels  of  which 
she  had  been  robbed,  ad 

"  '  Fair  lady,  neither  thy  name  nor  the  fame 
of  thy  beauty  is  unknown  to  me,  yet  these 
are  not  needed  to  protect  thee  from  danger  at 
my  hands.  I,  myself,  will  guard  them  till  with 
in  sight  of  thy  father's  halls,  and  thy  ser 
vants,  too,  cowards  though  they  have  proved 
themselves,  shall  accompany  us  on  the  way.' 

"  As  he  had  said,  so  he  performed,  and  ac 
companied  the  lady  Butha  to  her  father's  halls, 
and  as  he  turned  to  leave  her,  his  expressive 
face  told  how  gladly  he  would  have  tarried 
jonger.  As  he  left  her  he  said  : 

"  'Think  not,  gentle  lady,  that  men,  such  as 
myself,  choose  a  robber's  life  from  love  of  law 
lessness  and  vice.  No,  full  oft  it  is  that  cruel 
and  stinging  wrongs  drive  us  to  the  paths  we 
lead.  Then,  lady,  pity  us  and  our  sad  fate.' 

"  The  robber  chief  was  about  to  depart,  when 
a  gesture  from  the  lady  arrested  his  attention. 
Trembling  with  modest  agitation,  she  unloos 
ed  a  golden  clasp  from  her  arm  and  placed  it 
in  the  hand  of  Plaitzer,  saying : 

"  '  Take  this  as  a  token  of  my  gratitude,  and 
O,  Sir  Knight,  for  such  you  deserve  to  be,  if 
such  you  are  not,  I  entreat  thee  to  draw 
away  from  this  unlawful  life.  Go,  and  heed 
the  words  of  a  timid  but  grateful  daughter  of 
the  Rhine.' 

"  With  tears  in  her  dark,  earnest  eyes,  the 
lady  Butha  turned  away,  while  Plaitzer,  over 
come  by  a  strong  inward  impulse,  spurred  his 
horse  and  dashed  down  the  hill  side.  Like 
the  barbed  arrow,  whose  brightly  glittering 
point  but  pierces  the  deeper  for  its  keen  bril 
liancy,  the  words  of  the  lady  fastened  within 
the  breast  of  the  chief  of  the  robbers,  awaking 
all  the  bitter  feelings  of  his  soul.  He  looked 
upon  the  clasp  and  sighed. 

"  '  Ah,  lady,  would  that  a  kind  heaven  might 
lend  me  opportunity  to  reprieve  the  dark  taint 
which  clings  to ,  my  name,  then  perchance  I 
might  be  deemed  worthy  to  wear  thy  valued 
gift.' 

"  The  stars  looked  with  pitying  eyes  u  pen 
the  penitence  o/  the  noble  chief,  and  soon 
brought  him  the  opportunity  that  he  so  much 
coveted.  The  burgher  towns,  and  travellers 
on  the  Rhine,  had  been  long  oppressed  by  cer 
tain  haughty  nobles,  who  exacted  heavy  trib 
ute  and  committed  acts  of  grievous  tyranny. 
To  such  a  height  did  this  cruelty  at  last  arise, 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


77 


that  the  once  submissive  burghers  rose  in 
wrath  and  claimed  the  ready  aid  of  the  lord 
of  Eiswaldt  and  Bergen,  who  had  long  been 
their  steady  friends.  Eiswaldt,  himself,  was 
chosen  leader  of  the  burgher  confederacy,  and 
gladly  did  he  accept  the  proffered  assistance, of 
Plaitzer  and  such  of  his  band  as  could  fol 
low  him. 

"  Eiswaldt,  resolving  if  possible  to  be  before 
hand  with  the  enemy,  set  forth  with  Plaitzer 
and  a  body  of  knights  and  troopers  to  surprise 
the  stronghold  of  Ertezen,  belonging  to  the 
league  of  the  tyrannical  nobles.  But  the  pur 
pose  of  their  march  was  anticipated ;  they 
were  met  by  superior  numbers  near  Grunthalz 
mountain,  and  were  driven  back  in  confusion, 
for  the  burghers  were  unused  to  cope  with 
well  trained  soldiers,  and  Eiswaldt  and  Plait 
zer  threw  themselves  into  the  castle  of  the  for 
mer,  where  they  were  at  once  besieged.  For 
three  days  the  castle  held  out  against  every 
effort  that  was  brought  against  it,  but  on  the 
third  eve  a  low-born  churl,  actuated  both  by 
fear  and  by  hope  of  rich  reward,  stole  secretly 
forth  from  the  castle,  and  stipulated  for  a  cer 
tain  sum  of  money  to  show  an  entrance  into 
the  fortress.  The  proposal  was  accepted,  and 
the  traitor  led  the  way  to  a  ladder  which  he 
had  let  fall  along  the  face  of  the  precipice, 
which  sheered  perpendicularly  down  from  the 
castle  wall. 

"  Soon  a  wild  uproar  arose  within  the  walls 
of  castle  Eiswaldt.  The  walls  re-echoed  with 
all  the  terrors  of  a  stormed  fortress.  The  de 
fenders,  borne  down  by  overwhelming  numbers, 
craved  no  mercy,  and  the  brave  knight  of 
Eiswaldt  was  cut  down  before  the  eyes  of  his 
daughter,  who,  rushing  from  the  horrid  sight, 
threw  herself  from  the  precipice  which  over 
hung  the  river,  finding  a  refuge  beneath  the 
deep  waters  of  the  Rhine  from  her  ruthless 
pursuers,  who  shrunk  back  in  horror  from  the 
sight  of  such  a  sacrifice. 

"  Baron  Sinvern,  who  was  the  leader  of  the 
assailants,  ordered  the  castle  to  be  set  on  fire, 
and  the  victorious  party  retired,  bearing  with 
them,  as  prisoner,  the  person  of  young  Plait 
zer,  sadly  wounded.  On  arriving  at  the  castle 
of  the  Baron,  he  was  thrown  into  a  deep  dun 
geon,  where  he  long  languished  in  utter  obscu 
rity,  until  a  retainer  of  the  baron's,  who  had 
once  received  a  favor  from  the  prisoner  when 
he  was  commander  of  his  old  band,  succeeded 


in  setting  him  free.  Once  more  at  liberty,  he 
visited,  in  disguise,  the  town  of  Ransfeld, 
where  he  now  for  the  first  time  learned  the 
fate  of  Butha.  Buried  in  despair,  he  then 
realized  how  strongly  her  image  was  implant 
ed  in  his  bosom,  and  in  the  depth  of  his  sor 
row,  he  made  a  vow  to  travel  to  the  Holy  Land 
and  there  to  fight  the  Turks  in  behalf  of  sa 
cred  Jerusalem. 

"  Wearily  he  journeyed  thither,  and  on  the 
fields  of  Palestine  joined  the  veteran  ranks  of 
Richard  of  England.  Bravely  he  fought  the 
Saracen,  and  on  the  blood-stained  plains  of 
Ascalon,  received  from  the  hands  of  Coeur  de 
Lion,  the  order  of  the  Sepulchre,  which  none 
but  the  well-tried  crusader  might  bear. 

"  At  last  with  an  ever  aching  heart  Plaitzer, 
Knight  of  the  Sable  Plume,  turned  his  face 
once  more  towards  his  native  valley,  there  to 
relinquish  his  sorrow  and  his  life  together. 
War-worn  and  sad  he  journeyed  through  Hun 
gary,  accompanied  only  by  a  faithful  page,  and 
at  nightfall  of  a  summer's  day,  reached  the 
towers  of  an  old  chieftain  whose  son  had  but 
lately  returned  from  Palestine.  Most  welcome 
was  the  weary  knight  to  the  hospitality  of  the 
Hungarian.  Here  he  remained  for  a  few  days 
to  recruit  his  exhausted  strength,  in  the  com 
pany  of  the  young  soldier,  his  father,  and  the 
beautiful  Ada,  the  old  man's  daughter  and  his 
pride.  In  her  sweet  company  the  knight  for 
awhile  forgot  his  grief  and  pains,  and  listened 
joyfully  to  the  soft  music  of  her  songs,  so 
soothing  to  his  restless  soul. 

"  It  was  in  vain  for  the  gentle  Ada  to  disguise 
the  interest  that  the  noble  knight  had  created 
in  her  bosom,  and  when  he  left  them,  impelled 
as  he  said  by  duty,  she  looked  the  feelings  her 
tongue  might  not  utter,  and  watched  his  nod 
ding  plume  until  it  was  out  of  sight. 

"  The  knight  soon  after  arrived  in  sight  of  his 
native  valley,  and  once  more  beheld  the  old 
familiar  hills  and  the  scenes  which  in  his  ab 
sence  had  changed  so  little.  But,  alas !  the 
soul  of  the  wanderer  was  changed  indeed  ;  dark 
as  the  discolored  walls  that  crowned  the  heights 
of  Eiswaldt,  the  heart  of  Plaitzer  reflected  not 
the  rays  of  peace  and  cheerfulness  that  shone 
around  him.  Yet  feeling  that  life  was  destin 
ed  for  use  and  action,  he  struggled  stoutly 
against  the  griefs  that  preyed  upon  his  mind. 

"  The  burghers  having  invoked  the  protection 
of  the  emperor,  and  bought  the  patronage  of 


78 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


counts  and  barons,  had  finally  succeeded  in 
throwing  off  the  yoke  imposed  by  a  league  of 
insatiate  nobles.  Plaitzer,  on  his  return,  was 
besought  to  add  the  influence  of  his  name  and 
presence  in  protecting  the  rights  of  liberty. 
Pleased  at  the  suggestion,  and  determined  to 
fix  his  abode  in  the  neighborhood  consecrated 
by  Butha's  death,  he  built  upon  an  island  in 
the  middle  of  the  Rhine  a  strong  and  lofty 
tower,  to  which  he  gave  the  name  of  the  loved 
and  lost  maiden.  There  he  lived  in  solitude 
except  the  companionship  of  his  trusty  and 
faithful  page. 

"  '  Wilhelm,'  he  said  one  day,  '  are  thy  harp 
strings  all  untuned.' 

"  «  Nay,  my  dear  master,  it  is  long  since  I 
sang  to  thee,  wilt  listen  to  me  now  ?' 

" '  Yes,  boy,  sing  to  me.' 

"  The  youth  bent  o'er  the  instrument  as  he 
adjusted  its  strings,  and  then  brushing  back 
the  dark  locks  from  his  forehead,  burst  forth 
with  a  full,  deep  voice,  singing  the  following 
lyric : 

THE  PAGE'S  SONG. 

Awake,  Sir  Knight :  the  trumpet  sounds, 

Its  summons  calls  away  : 
Why  lettest  thou  thine  armor  rust, 

Thine  heart  so  brave  decay  ? 

O,  there  are  deeds  for  brave  men's  will, 

And  laurels  fair  to  win  : 
And  he  who  heeds  not  blood  to  spill, 

Should  love  the  battle's  din. 

Then  speed  ye  to  the  distant  fields, 

Where  kings  and  nobles  all 
Strike  for  the  prize  of  valiant  meed, 

Upon  the  plains  of  Gaul. 

O,  'tis  a  sight  to  stir  the  blood, 
And  flame  the  forehead's  flush — 

Yon  battle's  wild  and  glorious  flood, 
Yon  lancer's  furious  rush. 

Up,  then !  who  sit  in  silent  trance, 

Or  slumber  in  your  halls, 
Spring  up  ;  and  seize  the  martial  lance, 

Nor  rest  when  glory  calls  ! 

Then  up,  sir  knight !  the  trumpet  sounds, 

Its  larum  bids  away  ! 
Why  lettest  thou  thine  armor  rust, 

Thy  strength  and  heart  decay  ? 

"  The  page  paused  and  cast  a  stealthy  glance 
at  his  master,  whose  countenance  was  flushed 
and  sternly  knit,  and  then  carelessly  and  as  if 
not  observing  the  emotion  depicted  there,  the 
boy  said  : 


" '  It  is  a  song  which  I  heard  a  damsel  sing 
the  other  day,  as  she  was  washing  linen  by  the 
river  side.  I  believe  it  is  part  of  an  old  ballad, 
but  of  that  I  am  not  sure.' 

"  The  knight  cast  on  the  boy  a  piercing 
glance,  but  his  countenance  relaxed  as  a  smile 
dispelled  the  cloud  which  had  gathered  over 
his  features,  as  he  replied  : 

"  '  Many  thanks,  Wilhelm,  for  the  lesson  thy 
song  doth  teach  me  ;  but  I  fancy  that  thine  own 
head  has  done  much  towards  furnishing  the 
material  of  the  verses.  Yet  their  precepts  are 
a  little  ill-timed.' 

"  A  short  silence  ensued,  for  Wilhelm  was 
too  much  abashed  at  the  reception  of  his  song 
and  the  failure  of  its  innocent  purpose,  to  offer 
any  answer  to  his  master. 

"  '  Look,  Wilhelm,'  resumed  the  knight,  as 
going  to  a  window  of  the  castle  which  com 
manded  a  view  eastward,  he  directed  the  eyes 
of  the  page  to  the  undulating  horizon.  '  Yon 
der  lies  my  path  ;  to  the  land  of  Palestine  once 
more,  but  not  as  the  steel-clad  warrior  to  fight 
for  the  cross  and  scale  the  walls  of  the  Mos 
lem.  No,  for  the  glorious  victory  has  been 
won,  and  the  flag  of  the  crusader  waves  over 
the  towers  of  Jerusalem.  I  go  now  with  the 
pilgrim's  staff  and  scallop  shell,  to  bend  in 
penitence  at  the  foot  of  the  sepulchre.  I  give 
my  castle  to  thy  charge  ;  if  I  return  no  more 
it  is  thine  own,  and  thy  service  is  none  too 
well  repaid.  Open  my  coffers  to  the  poor,  and 
give  them  freely  of  the  treasures  you  find 
there.  Nay,  stay  thy  remonstrance,  my  will 
is  fixed,  Wilhelm.' 

"  And  so  the  knight  was  once  more  an  exile 
from  the  scenes  of  Fatherland.  Days  and 
nights  fled  on,  mountain-pass  and  valley-depth 
were  trodden,  murmuring  streams  and  rush 
ing  rivers  were  passed  over,  yet  no  rest  came 
to  the  feet  of  the  pilgrim  save  from  the  slum 
ber  which  nature  demanded,  until  again  at  set 
of  sun,  the  wanderer  paused  by  the  rude  way 
stone,  from  whence  was  again  to  be  seen  the 
towers  of  the  Hungarian,  whose  hospitable  roof 
had  sheltered  the  knight  when  returning  from 
Holy-Land.  An  honest  peasant  rested  from 
his  burthen,  then  beside  the  stone,  and  to  him 
the  knight  addressed  his  inquiries  concerning 
those  he  remembered  so  well  beneath  yonder 
roof. 

"  '  Can'st  tell  me,  friend,  concerning  the  wel 
fare  of  those  who  dwell  in  yonder  castle  ?  I 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


79 


am,  as  thou  seest,  a  pilgrim  bound  to  Holy- 
Land  ;  but  as  once  I  found  good  shelter  there, 
I  feel  no  little  solicitude  for  its  inmates.' 

"  '  Good  palmer,'  the  peasant  answered, '  the 
baron  of  yonder  castle  is  my  own  lord,  and  a 
most  kindly  one  beside  ;  all  is  well  with  them, 
but  the  old  baron  sadly  mourns  the  loss  of  his 
daughter,  Ada.' 

"  '  The  beautiful  Ada  dead?'  said  the  palm 
er,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  '  Even  so.  Ah  !  she  was  beautiful  as  the 
rising  morn,  but  grief  will  eat  out  the  life 
from  these  flowers  of  loveliness,  and  so  when 
heart-sickness  finds  no  relief  they  fade  and 
perish.' 

" '  Thou  speakest  in  riddles,  fellow,'  said 
Plaitzer,  almost  fiercely,  for  an  undefined  fear 
seemed  to  thrill  through  his  veins. 

"  '  Then  thou  knowest  not  the  story  ?'  said 
the  peasant,  earnestly. 

"'Not  I.' 

"  '  Listen  then,  and  I  will  tell  thee  :  There 
came  hither,  not  long  sinse,  a  knight,  return 
ing  from  Palestine  shore;  he  had  wrought 
many  mighty  deeds  of  valor,  and  he  was  hos 
pitably  received  by  the  old  baron  and  his 
daughter.  Here  the  knight  remained  for  a 
while  and  sweetly  passed  the  time  with  them. 
The  stranger  and  the  baron's  son,  who  had  al 
so  been  a  soldier  of  the  cross,  oft  recounted 
their  adventurous  experience,  and  Ada,  gentle 
and  artless,  drank  in  the  words  and  the  kind 
speeches  of  the  knight.  Thus  she  gave  her 
heart's  love  to  him,  and  when  the  cruel  and 
capricious  stranger  discovered  that  he  was 
master  of  her  affections,  he  left  the  fair  Ada 
to  die  of  a  broken  heart  and — ' 

" '  Villain,'  shouted  the  incensed  palmer, 
'thou  liest  in  thy  mouth!'  But  checking 
himself  he  turned  away  and  hastily  pursued 
his  path. 

"  '  I  was  wrong,'  he  ejaculated,  '  the  peas 
ant  doubtless  has  believed  the  story  which  he 
uttered.  Ada,  Ada,  would  I  had  slept  in 
death  ere  I  had  been  the  cause  of  unhappiness 
to  thee.' 

"  Soon  leaving  the  road  upon  his  right,  the 
palmer  entered  the  grove  below  the  baronial 
towers,  directing  his  steps  towards  an  open 
ing  where  he  had  last  bade  farewell  to  the  hos 
pitable  family.  And  now  how  sad  were  the 
reflections  that  crowded  upon  his  mind  as  he 
recalled  the  pensive  countenance  of  the  fair 


girl  as  she  bade  him  a  last  adieu.  It  was  a 
sweet  retreat,  that  sylvan  bower  where  he  had 
separated  from  the  hospitable  Hungarians,  and 
its  glossy  carpet  of  green  was  studded  with 
golden  and  azure  flowers,  which,  nestling  amid 
its  emerald  vines,  filled  the  air  with  fragrance. 
The  palmer  approached  the  well-remembered 
place,  but  started  with  trembling  limbs  as  he 
marked  a  marble  monument  that  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  open  space,  and  saw  upon  its 
top  the  garland  of  affectionate  remembrance. 
He  wept  as  he  read  the  inscription  upon  the 
stone — 

"OUR  ADA." 

"  The  palmer  knelt  and  pressed  his  brow 
against  the  cold  stone,  and  with  clasped  hands 
prayed  for  the  spirit  of  the  departed.  For  a 
moment  he  even  forgot  his  own  long  home 
and  hopeless  sorrow,  in  grief  for  her  who 
slept  beneath. 

"  The  shadows  of  eve  had  already  gathered 
round,  and  anxious  to  pursue  his  journey,  the 
pilgrim  knight  reverentially  rose,  when  lo  !  to 
his  astonished  eyes  the  dim  light  revealed  the 
lineaments  of  what  he  felt  to  be  an  unearthly 
shape,  whose  form  was  clad  in  robes  of  flowing 
white.  Though  struck  with  awe,  he  address 
ed  the  vision  : 

"  '  Fair  Ada,  dost  thou  come  to  chide  me 
from  the  grave.  Alas  !  gentle  spirit,  I  never 
meant  thee  harm,  for  while  thankful  for  thy 
kindness,  thy  gentle  smiles,  my  wounded  spir 
it  wept,  0,  how  bitterly  for  another." 

A  sudden  shriek  pierced  the  stillness,  and 
the  white  form  as  it  fell  forward  was  received 
in  the  arms  of  the  knight.  He  staggered  back 
for  a  moment  as  he  felt  the  weight  of  living 
reality,  and  parted  the  hair  from  the  pale  fore 
head  of  the  stranger,  and  then  with  strange, 
uncontrollable  emotion,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  '  It  is  Butha !  my  long  lost,  long  loved  Bu- 
tha.  What  miracle  is  this  ?' 

"  Cold  water  from  the  brook  hard  by  served 
to  revive  the  fainting  form  of  the  lady,  and 
the  first  transports  of  joy  were  soon  followed 
by  a  calmer  happiness.  It  was  then  that  the 
mystery  was  solved,  relating  to  her  appear 
ance. 

"  When,  as  we  have  seen,  Butha  rushed  forth 
from  the  tower  of  Eiswaldt  and  threw  herself 
from  the  precipice  which  overhangs  the  Rhine, 
she  sunk  down  into  an  under  currant,  formed 
by  one  of  the  many  eddies  which  occur  near 


80 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


the  river's  bank,  which  swept  her  away  from 
the  spot  and  brought  her  again  to  the  surface. 
Here  she  was  rescued  by  a  craft  that  was 
bound  up  the  river.  In  this  vessel,  under  pro 
tection  of  a  military  escort,  was  an  old  noble 
man  who  was  journeying  up  the  Rhine  to  his 
own  country  after  completing  a  foreign  mis 
sion.  On  hearing  her  story,  after  she  had  re 
covered,  the  nobleman  persuaded  her  to  seek 
the  protection  of  his  Hungarian  barony. 

"  Days  and  weeks  passed  by,  and  Butha 
found  a  happy  home.  Many  months  had 
elapsed  when  a  brother  of  the  venerable  no 
bleman  visited  the  castle  of  Koval.  The 
stranger  chief  soon  heard  from  his  brother's 
lips  the  story  of  Butha's  misfortune,  whose 
charms  were  now  heightened  by  a  sweet  mel 
ancholy  which  added  a  softened  attraction  to 
her  fair  face.  The  lord  of  Saravost  looked 
kindly  upon  the  lovely  daughter  of  the  Rhine, 
and  his  imagination  traced  in  her  features  a 
resemblance  to  his  own  gentle  Ada.  A  few 
days  after  he  said  to  Butha  : 

"  '  My  child,  I  have  a  great  favor  to  ask  of 
thee.  I  have  an  only  daughter,  a  year  young 
er  than  thyself,  who  is  pining  for  a  companion 
like  yourself,  who  would  be  a  sister  to  her. — 
She  grows  paler  and  weaker  each  day ;  per 
chance  thy  company  may  tend  to  relieve  her 
spirits  and  cheer  her.  Go  with  me,  and  thou 
shalt  be  to  me  as  mine  own  child.' 

"  '  Alas,  my  lord,  I  have  suchsorrows  of  my 
own  that  I  should  be  a  sorry  companion  for  one 
like  your  gentle  child,'  replied  Butha. 

"  '  Nay,  for  that  very  reason,  if  for  no  other, 
you  are  most  fitted  to  the  purpose,  since  each 
may  console  and  cheer  the  other,'  replied  the 
nobleman. 

"  «  My  kind  friendshere  have  all  the  disposal 
of  me.  I  will  take  their  advice,  even  though  it 
be  to  leave  them,'  she  replied,  sadly. 

"  '  What  say  you,  brother,  will  you  not  join 
me  in  urging  our  young  friend  to  come  with 
me  and  befriend  poor  Ada,  who  is  so  melan 
choly  ?' 

"  '  She  is  free  to  go  or  stay,',  said  the  lord  of 
Koval;  'full  well  she  knows,  brother,  how 


dearly  we  regard  her  presence  here  in  our  cas 
tle,  and  how  gladly  we  would  have  her  stay.' 

"  '  Then,  my  gentle  Butha,  we  have  his  con 
sent,  provided  you  are  yourself  willing.  Will 
you  not  go  then,  and  if  you  become  weary,  I 
will  myself  return  with  you  to  Koval  ?' 

"  '  Well,  my  lord,  since  you  urge  me  so 
much,  I  will  go  with  you,  though  much  I  fear 
one  heart  so  sad  as  mine  will  add  no  joy  to 
your  household.' 

"  '  Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  gentle  Butha, 
no  fear  but  we  shall  rejoice  at  the  change,  and 
we  will  strive  to  make  you  happy,'  said  her 
new  friend. 

"  Thus  besought,  she  consented,  and  soon  af 
ter  became  domesticated  as  the  companion  of 
Ada.  Butha  attempted  to  dispel  the  dejec 
tion  which  Ada  strove,  but  in  vain,  to  conceal. 
But  all  her  efforts  were  vain,  and  she  soon 
found  that  some  secret  grief  preyed  upon  the 
mind  of  the  gentle  girl.  Gradually,  Butha 
came  to  suspect  the  nature  of  that  grief,  and 
at  length,  influenced  by  her  tender  solicitude, 
Ada  told  her  all.  Struggling  against  the  in 
ward  emotion  that  she  experienced,  Butha 
strove  to  console  her  young  friend,  but  the  lat 
ter  failed  away  day  by  day,  and  at  last  sank 
to  sleep  forever. 

"  As  the  fair  young  girl  died,  she  solicited 
from  her  father  the  promise  that  he  would 
adopt  Butha  in  her  place,  and  this  promise  so 
freely  given,  was  as  truly  kept.  Butha  ever 
kept  fresh  the  flowers  which  graced  the  fair 
Ada's  grave,  and  the  eve  she  had  met  with  the 
lone  palmer,  she  had  come  to  strew  it  with 
fragrant  buds. 

"  But  who  shall  paint  the  happiness  of  Butha 
and  the  knight  of  the  cross,  now  that  they  had 
met  again  ?  The  holy  ties  of  matrinHmy  made 
them  one,  in  the  rural  chapel  of  Sera vost,  and 
soon  after,  Butha's  tower  on  the  river  island, 
received  its  lord,  the  Knight  of  the  Sable 
Plume,  and  his  fearless  bride,  whose  name  the 
castle  bore." 

" '  Well  told,  good  Carli,'  said  the  prisoner 
'  thou  art  a  true  son  of  the  Rhine.' 


CHAPTER    XV. 


THE    STRATAGEM. 


Ho,  treachery !  ray  guards,  my  scimitar ! 


BYRON. 


ROBERT  STANLEY  was  still  a  welcome  and 
favored  guest  at  the  castle  of  Ghertstein,  and 
indeed  seemed  to  many  a  jealous  aspirant  for 
the  fair  lady  Gustine's  hand,  to  grow  in  favor 
with  both  parent  and  child,  and  in  proportion 
to  the  amount  of  courtesy  thus  extended  to 
him,  were  the  ire  and  jealousy  of  those  who 
followed  in  the  lady's  train  moved.  In  this 
state  of  affairs  young  Stanley  began  to  realize 
that  he  was  constantly  and  most  closely 
watched,  in  order  that  some  cause  of  open 
disagreement  might  be  found  against  him, 
whereby  his  enemies  would  be  enabled  to 
avow  their  feelings,  a-nd  hence  perhaps  by 
some  cunning  trick,  ensnarl  him  in  some  most 
unpleasant  dilemma.  Realizing  these  facts, 
and  fearing  apparently  that  the  impetuosity  of 
his  disposition  might  in  a  hasty  moment  lead 
him  to  do  some  deed  that  he  should  have  oc 
casion  to  regret,  he  resolved  to  press  his  suit 
warmly,  and  if  possible,  to  win  at  once  the 
hand  and  love  of  the  peerless  Gustine. 

It  was  about  this  period  one  evening,  as  the 
young  Englishman  was  approaching  the  cas 
tle,  actuated  by  the  purpose  to  which  we  have 
just  referred,  that  he  met  two  of  the  gentle 
men  who  were  most  conspicuous  in  their  at 
tendance  on  the  fair  lady  Gustine.  He  was 
on  his  way  from  the  town,  and  had  already 
nearly  ascended  the  cliff  on  which  the  castle 
6 


stood,  when  the  two  persons  met  him.  They 
were  evidently  awaiting  his  coming,  and  as 
he  drew  still  nearer  to  them,  which  he  was 
compelled  to  do  in  pursuing  his  path,  they  ut 
tered  some  sneering  remark  relating  to  the 
country  to  which  he  was  supposed  to  belong. 
But  absorbed  with  the  intention  that  governed 
him  so  strongly,  he  hardly  noticed  their  speech, 
and  bowing  in  a  dignified  manner,  he  passed 
on.  But  the  insult  was  repeated,  and  with 
such  marked  intent  that  he  could  no  longer 
pretend  to  be  indifferent  to  it,  and  turning 
toward  them  with  a  fire  in  his  eye  that  they  had 
never  seen  there  before,  said  with  cool  irony : 

"  Gentlemen,  you  seem  by  some  chance  to 
have  chosen  a  somewhat  remarkable  time, 
place  and  subject,  for  diverting  yourselves.  It 
is  useless  to  deny  that  your  words  were  meant 
for  me." 

"  We  deny  nothing,"  said  both,  confidently ; 
the  elder,  a  man  of  some  eight  and  thirty,  all 
the  while  playing  with  the  silken  sword  knot 
that  was  attached  to  his  weapon. 

"  You  acknowledge  that  you  wished  to  in 
sult  me,"  continued  the  Englishman. 

"  You  are  a  good  interpreter  to  understand 
so  well,"  replied  the  elder  of  the  two. 

"  Fools  !"  said  their  intended  victim,  irritat 
ed  to  the  utmost  sufferance. 

"  Fools  ?"  repeated  both,  in  amazement. 


82 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"JAy,  both  of  ye,  fools  and  cowards  !" 
As  he  uttered  the  last  words,  his  rapier 
sprang  from  its  scabbard,  and  with  its  flat  side 
he  struck  them  both  a  blow  across  the  breast, 
so  quick  and  stoutly  as  to  stagger  them,  and 
almost  to  bring  them  to  the  ground.  This 
was  the  signal  for  a  grand  melee,  and  in  an 
instant  after,  their  swords  were  striking^fire  in 
the  dim  hazy  twilight  of  the  hour. 

But  the  two  who  had  thus  provoked  the  at 
tack,  had  not  counted  upon  the  skill  of  their 
successful  rival,  for  although  themselves  by  no 
means  indifferent  swordsmen,  yet  they  could 
not  touch  him  with  the  points  of  their  weapons, 
so  keen  was  his  eye,  and  so  subtle  his  fence. 
Already  their  faces  were  blackened  with  the 
excitement  of  their  passion  and  disappoint 
ment,  when,  with  a  boldness  and  dexterity 
that  astounded  and  confused  them,  he  who 
bore  the  name  of  Stanley  dashed  at  them,  and 
by  coup-de-main  disarmed  them  both,  casting 
their  swords  far  over  the  cliff  into  the  very 
bed  of  the  Rhine,  where  they  sank  to  be  seen 
no  more.  The  two  men  who  had  thus  set 
upon  the  other  single  one,  now  looked  crest 
fallen  and  ashamed,  for  he  spared  their  lives 
so  completely  at  his  mercy. 

"  Your  luck  has  served  you  well,"  said  the 
spokesman  of  the  two,  "  but  we  shall  meet 
again  when  skill  will  be  called  into  requisition ; 
this  affair  does  not  end  here." 

"  When  you  please,  where  you  please,  and 
with  what  you  please,"  said  the  Englishman, 
coolly. 

"  Your  confidence  serves  you  well,"  con 
tinued  the  other,  "  but  we  shall  humble  you." 

"  At  present  you  have  evidently  counted 
without  your  host,  gentlemen,"  he  replied, 
coolly,  as  he  now  returned  his  own  weapon  to 
the  scabbard.  "  You  had  best  retire  and  con 
sider  your  folly  in  secret." 

"  We  will  see  you  again." 

"  At  your  own  pleasure,"  added  the  English 
man,  quite  indifferently. 

And  with  a  muttered  curse  from  the  discom 
fited  party,  they  separated. 

More  than  ever  impressed  with  the  impor 
tance  of  bringing  his  suit  to  an  immediate 
issue,  the  more  successful  follower  of  the  lady 
Gustine  resolved  that  he  would,  if  possible, 
make  some  appointment  with  her  that  very 
evening,  in  which  they  alone  might  participate, 
and  then  if  his  fortune  still  favored  him,  he 


would  openly  declare  his  love,  and  strive  to 
win  from  her  a  promise  of  her  hand  and 
heart.  With  this  intent,  he  approached  the 
castle,  and  being  announced,  was  received  with 
the  cordial  welcome  that  ha d^ver  greeted  him 
in  the  halls  of  Ghertstein. 

He  found  the  lady  alone,  and  engaged  in 
reading  one  of  those  German  legends  with 
which  the  few  books  of  that  period  were  rilled. 
She  received  him  with  marked  kindness  and 
consideration,  but  you  would  have  looked  in 
vain  for  any  token  of  love  on  her  part.  There 
was  no  such  language  in  the  depth  of  her 
large,  blue  eyes,  though  their  expression  of 
pleasure  in  his  society  was  unmistakable. 
She  spoke  of  the  story  she  was  reading ;  it 
was  one  of  those  wild  and  romantic  legends 
of  the  upper  Rhine,  and  he  listened  with  most 
respectful  attention.  And  then  her  companion 
related  another,  which  showed  him  to  be  as 
familiar  with  the  beautiful  valley  as  herself, 
and  to  know  its  wild  and  romantic  story  of 
cliff  or  ruined  tower,  like  one  who  had  been 
born  upon  the  river's  banks. 

He  told  her  of  the  ruined  tower  of  Corbetz, 
and  the  story  of  the  unhappy  spirit  of  a  fair 
young  girl  that  was  said  still  to  linger  about 
its  mossy  aisles  and  decayed  courts.  He  in 
vested  all  with  such  a  soft  hue  of  romance, 
that  he  found  the  lady  Gustine  a  willing  lis 
tener. 

"  You  speak  like  one  whose  days  have  been 
passed  upon  the  spots  you  describe." 

"  One  could  hardly  inhabit  your  lovely  val 
ley,  even  temporarily,  without  imbibing  its 
spirit  of  romance." 

"  You  have  been  an  apt  sojourner  among 
us,  Mr.  Stanley,  so  soon  to  have  drunk  in  the 
spirit." 

"  There  are  many  of  these  legends  and  stories 
that  I  have  treasured  in  memory,  but  doubtless 
they  are  all  familiar  to  you,  lady,  who  are  na 
tive  here,  in  this  fair  valley." 

"  But  I  never  tire  of  listening  to  them," 
she  replied ;  "  they  please  me  much." 

.  "  There  was  one  that  interested  me  much, 
and  which  for  its  locale  had  this  very  neigh 
borhood." 

"Indeed?" 

"  Yes,  shall  I  tell  it  to  you  ?'' 

"  Do  so." 

And  then  in  a  low  and  gentle  voice  he  told 
her  how  a  noble  lady  of  t'le  neighboring  val- 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


83 


ley,  while  she  was  yet  but  a  mere  girl,  had 
seen  a  youth  remarkable  for  his  grace  and 
beauty.  That  as  years  passed  on,  they  often 
met,  the  lady  caring  not  for  the  humble  estate 
of  the  youth,  for"  he  was  hardly  more  than  a 
peasant.  This  his  dress  at  once  betrayed,  but 
preferring  love  to  power,  she  gave  no  weight 
to  the  chance  that  had  given  him  birth  in  a 
humbler  station  than  herself,  but  sacrificed  her 
pride  to  her  love,  and  freely  gave  her  heart  to 
him  who  had  wooed  her  in  secret.  At  last, 
having  prepared  a  modest  and  humble  home 
in  the  forest  for  this  tender  flower  which  had 
been  nursed  and  reared  in  lavish  luxuriance, 
he  came  o.-ie  night,  and  meeting  her  by  ap 
pointment  at  the  castle  gate,  they  fled  from 
her  father's  halls. 

But  alas !  for  her  true  love,  she  found  that 
her  husband,  though  young  and  handsome, 
tender  of  heart  as  a  child  to  her,  and  gentle 
by  nature  to  all,  was  yet  the  leader  of  a  pow 
erful  fraternity  of  banditti.  But  her  woman 
heart  was  true  to  the  last,  and  she  followed 
his  fortunes,  though  they  were  often  of  the 
severest  character,  and  faithful  were  they  to 
'each  other,  until  finally  the  law  claimed  its 
victim,  when  he  was  taken,  condemned,  and 
executed  with  many  of  his  comrades.  Then 
it  was  that  the  young  wife,  with  her  little  boy, 
after  suffering  and  privation  had  overcome  her 
sense  of  pride,  returned  to  her  father's  gates, 
not  to  beg  of  him  to  reinstate  her  to  the 
honored  place  she  had  once  filled  at  his  fire 
side  ;  no,  she  did  not  aspire  to  this,  but  she 
humbly  begged  for  charity,  for  the  bare  means 
of  supporting  life  within  herself  and  her  lit 
tle  son.  But  her  proud  father's  heart  was 
made  of  iron,  and  the  young  mother  was  rude 
ly  driven  from  his  door,  to  perish  of  misery 
and  want. 

"While  the  narrator  spoke*  thus,  he  grew  so 
animated  and  earnest  that  his  cheek  was  flush 
ed,  his  speech  quick,  and  his  eye  almost  wild 
with  excitement.  Indeed,  he  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  himself  in  the  interest  he  evinced, 
and  the  lady  too  showed  no  trifling  degree  of 
emotion. 

"  And  the  child  ?"  suggested  the  lady  Gus- 
tine,  "what  became  of  him  ?" 

"  What  should  you  think,   lady,   would 
probably  be  the  after  life  of  that  boy  ?" 

"  Indeed,  1  cannot  divine,"  she  answered, 
evidently  ill  at  ease  about  some  sad  thought. 


"  I  will  tell  you.  He  grew  up,  determined 
to  avenge  himself,  first  upon  the  laws^for  his 
father's  death,  and  then  upon  the  proud  nobil 
ity  of  the  land  for  his  mother's  suffering." 

"  This  is  a  strange  story  to  tell  me,  Mr. 
Stanley,"  said  the  lady,  somewhat  markedly. 

"  And  why  stranger  than  if  I  had  chosen 
any  other  story  of  the  valley  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Because  it  relates  to  my  own  cousin,  the 
lord  Blasius,  and  his  sister,  who  unfortunately 
as  you  have  related,  became  the  wife  of  the 
far-famed  and  unprincipled  Schinderkanes." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  I  have  been  so  unfor 
tunate  as  to  refer,  though  inadvertently,  to 
any  matter  that  is  unpleasant  to  you  ?  Jf  so 
I  can  only  plead  my  ignorance,  and  ask  your 
forgiveness,  lady." 

"  You  have  it  most  cordially,"  she  replied, 
smiling  upon  him  as  she  spoke. 

"  Thank  you,  lady ;  far  be  it  from  me  to 
render  one  moment  of  your  life  unhappy." 

"  It  matters  not,  Mr.  Stanley,  and  if  I  ap 
peared  for  a  moment  moved,  it  was  only  at  the 
eloquence  yourself  displayed,  and  the  interest 
you  seemed  to  experience  in  the  story  as  you 
told  it." 

"  Nay,  I  had  noted  it  only  as  other  legends 
that  I  have  listened  to  of  your  valley,"  he 
replied. 

"  This  son  of  Julia  Blasius,"  continued  the 
lady;  "was  named  Karl,  and  as  you  have  said, 
became  like  his  father  an  outlaw,  still  defying 
the  authorities  of  the  valley,  with  a  well  or 
ganized  band." 

"  Indeed  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  report  speaks  much  of  his  sin 
gular  and  eccentric  character." 

"  There  is  an  old  tower  on  the  main  road 
thaf  leads  from  Bronts  towards  the  north,' 
said  her  companion,  "  some  league  or  there 
abouts  from  here,  of  which  I  have  heard  a 
very  curious  story,  and  from  a  source  also  that 
I  am  inclined  most  fully  to  credit.  ,1  thought 
it  so  remarkable  and  characteristic,  and  was 
so  impressed  with  the  details  of  the  story, 
that  I  have  visited  and  explored  the  spot  since 
I  have  been  here,  carefully  examining  the  lo 
calities  upon  which  it  largely  depends  for  its 
interest.  The  legend  when  listened  to  upon 
the  spot,  becomes  so  impressive  that  no  candid 
mind  can  doubt  its  truth — though  it  is  by  far 
the  most  romantic  in  its  character  of  any  I 
have  yet  heard  in  the  Rhine  valley.  Do  you 
know  the  ruins  I  refer  to  ?" 


84 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  On  the  main  road  from  Bronts  towards 
the  north?"  asked  the  lady. 

«  Yes." 

"  I  do  not,  and  yet  I  am  familiar  with  that 
road.  Is  it  isolated,  or  on  some  prominent 
point  ?" 

"  Situated  a  little  off  the  main  road,  on  a 
forest  path,  that  leads  to  a  gentle  ascent." 

"  It  is  singular  that  I  have  never  heard  of 
the  ruins,  and  yet  have  been  so  near  to 
them." 

"  They  are  not  set  down  in  our  maps,  and 
indeed,  1  found  them  but  little  known,  lying 
as  they  do  off  the  main  road,  at  the  inner 
edge  of  the  forest,  where  it  crowns  the 
hills." 

"  I  should  like  above  all  things  to  see  the 
tower,  and  hear  you  relate  the  story." 

"Nothing  would  delight  me  more  than  to 
visit  the  spot  with  you,  lady  Gustine,  and  as 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  depart  for  the  south  on 
the  day  after  to-morrow,  might  we  not  do  so 
on  the  coming  afternoon  ?" 

"  O,  yes,  if  it  be  safe  in  that  neighbor 
hood,"  she  replied. 

"  It  is  the  most  quiet  portion  of  the  coun 
try  for  leagues  about." 

"  I  will  order  my  horse  early  then,  that  we 
may  get  home  in  time  from  the  ruins  to  greet 
my  father,  who  will  be  returning  at  the  close 
of  the  day  from  a  business  trip  to  the  upper 
valley." 

"  I  shall  be  quite  at  your  service,  lady,  as  to 
time,"  replied  her  companion. 

On  the  day  following  the  meeting  just  des 
cribed,  a  little  after  meridian,  the  two,  mount 
ed  on  superb  chargers,  dashed  spiritedly 
through  the  town  of  Bronts  and  took  the  high 
road  that  led  towards  the  mountains.  A  hun 
dred  eyes  were  turned  to  admire  the  splendid 
horsemanship  of  the  gentleman,  who  strode 
a  coal  black  steed  of  wondrous  power  and 
beauty  of  action,  while  the  lady's  milk-white 
charger  was  no  less  completely  in  her  com 
mand.  They  were  a  noble  looking  pair,  and 
elicited  many  an  earnest  compliment  of  admi 
ration  as  they  passed  the  throng  of  people. 

If  the  fair  lady  Gustine  had  thought  her 
new  friend  entertaining  before,  when  he  had 
so  amused  her  within  her  father's  halls,  she 
now  thought  him  eloquence  itself.  Not  a 
natural  beauty  escaped  his  quick,  observant 
eye,  nor  a  curious  spot  his  remark,  while  he 


seemed  to  know  the  beauties  of  the  count  ry 
like  one  who  had  studied  them  with  both  a 
poet's  and  a  painter's  eye.  So  agreeable  in 
deed  did  he  prove,  that  the  lady  Gustine  had 
not  once  recalled  the  object  of  their  excursion, 
though  they  had  already  left  Bronts  fully  a 
league  or  more  behind  them,  and  still  they 
sped  on,  while  her  companion,  seemingly  in 
unwonted  good  spirits,  absorbed  and  entertain 
ed  her  thoughts. 

At  last  they  approached  a  road  that  seemed 
to  be  but  little  used,  and  though  it  might  af 
ford  comfortable  passage  for  equestrians,  was 
yet  hardly  accessible  for  a  vehicle  of  any 
kind.  Here  they  turned  off  the  main  road, 
when  for  a  moment  the  lady's  attention  was 
called  to  the  route  they  were  pursuing,  and 
she  said : 

"  A  league,  Mr.  Stanley,  why  this  must  be 
nearly  two  from  Bronts  ?" 

"  Do  you  feel  fatigued,  lady  ?"  he  rejoined, 
with  evident  interest. 

"  O,  no,"  she  replied,  "  but  we  must  calculate 
accordingly  for  the  distance,  in  our  hour  for 
returning.'' 

Bu  both  seemed  to  be  in  the  highest  spirits, 
and  still  chatting,  they  dashed  on  through  the 
winding  forest  path,  it  could  hardly  be  called 
a  road,  until  it  was  deemed  high  time  for 
them  to  have  found  the  ruined  tower,  and  at 
last  it  was  concluded  that  by  some  chance, 
they  must  have  passed  the  path  that  led  to 
it,  or  have  taken  the  wrong  road  when  they 
first  entered  the  forest.  Yet  her  companion 
was  so  positive  that  this  was  the  route  he  had 
so  lately  travelled,  that  they  resolved  to  keep 
on  still  a  little  longer,  fully  to  satisfy  them 
selves.  And  thus  they  continued  on  for  some 
time  longer,  until  at  last  they  came  to  a  small 
open  plat  of  ground,  of  a  circular  form, 
around  which  they  rode,  endeavoring  to  find 
some  outlet  that  might  lead  towards  the  ruins 
which  they  sought.  From  this  circular  plat 
there  opened  two  forest  paths,  the  one  by 
which  they  had  entered,  and  one  opposite, 
which  led  deeper  into  the  wood.  Either  by 
accident  or  purpose,  when  they  left  the  circu 
lar  plat,  although  ostensibly  for  the  purpose  of 
returning,  having  already  abandoned  as  useless 
their  purpose  of  seeking  the  ruined  tower, 
they  took  the  wrong  road. 

"  We  must  ride  with  a  free  rein,"  said  the 
lady,  "for  already  the  sun  is  declining." 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


85 


"  We  have  exhausted  much  time  unwitting 
ly,"  said  her  companion,  "  in  this  fruitless 
search." 

"My  father  I  fear  will  chide  this  impru 
dence,"  said  the  lady  Gustine,  seeming  to  re 
alize  for  the  first  time  that  she  was  alone  in 
the  deep  wood,  with  one  who  was  a  compara 
tive  stranger  to  her. 

"  It  is  I  who  am  to  blame,  lady,  for  attempt 
ing  to  play  the  guide  when  I  knew  so  little 
about  the  road." 

"  Let  us  on  now,  and  make  up  for  lost 
time,"  said  the  lady,  touching  her  horse  with 
the  whip. 

The  lady  Gustine  was  perfect  mistress  of 
the  menage,  and  tired  not,  while  her  com 
panion  accommodated  himself  to  her  mood, 
riding  slow  or  fast  as  she  chose,  with  that  in 
different  ease  that  showed  him  long  used  to 
the  saddle,  But  now  it  began  to  grow  dark, 
and  the  twilight  hour  was  clothing  nature  in 
its  dreamy  hues.  Long  shadows  were  already 
cast  across  the  paths,  and  still  they  seemed  to 
be  plunging  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  forest, 
rather  than  pursuing  a  path  that  would  finally 
bring  them  to  the  highway  again.  Though 
the  lady  expressed  no  fear,  yet  it  was  evident 
that  she  was  exercised  by  no  slight  degree  of 
uneasiness  as  she  became  at  last  convinced 
that  this  was  perhaps  the  case,  and  now  for 
the  first  time  heeded  with  a  careless  ear  the 
converse  of  her  loquacious  companion.  She 
hurried  forward  her  horse,  as  though  she  hop 
ed  to  obtain  some  light  ere  long  as  to  their  posi 
tion,  while  her  companion  pleaded  his  igno 
rance  of  the  character  of  the  country  paths 
and  by-roads,  but  still  seemed  inclined  to  press 
forward,  which  they  did  until  it  became  quite 
dark.  When  suddenly  the  lady  Gustine  drew 
up  her  horse,  and  said  in  a  spirit  almost  of 
despair : 

"  Indeed,  this  is  very,  very  unfortunate,  Mr. 
Stanley  ;  how  will  it  end  ?" 

"  I  regret  it  deeply  for  your  sake,"  replied 
her  companion,  "but  we  will  hope  for  the 
best." 

"  How  could  we  have  been  so  thoughtless 
and  careless  as  to  get  lost  here  ?" 

"  I  fear  that  I  am  wholly  to  blame,  for  I 
have  led  you  here." 

"  And  these  woods,  too,  Mr.  Stanley,"  said 
the  lady,  with  a  shudder,  "  are  not  unfrequent- 


ly  infested  by  robbers.  Alas  !  I  feel  as  though 
I  should  drop  from  my  horse  with  fright." 

"  I  assure  you  there  is  no  cause  for  alarm, 
lady,"  said  her  companion  ;  "  come  what  may, 
you  are  safe  from  all  harm.  You  may  rely 
upon  my  words." 

"  You  speak  confidently,  Mr.  Stanley,"  said 
the  lady,  somewhat  surprised. 

"  If  I  speak  confidently,  it  is  the  more  suc 
cessfully  to  assure  you,  lady,  but  still  you  may 
rely  upon  my  words." 

The  singular  calmness  of  her  companion 
under  the  exciting  circumstances,  and  a  pecu 
liar  manner  that  seemed  to  have  suddenly 
crept  over  him,  also  became  a  cause  of  suspi 
cion  to  the  lady  Gustine,  and  she  felt  like  one 
certainly  deserted  and  surrounded  by  myriads 
of  undefined  dangers.  She  now  realized  how 
imprudent  she  had  been  to  leave  home  thus 
unattended,  and  her  heart  sank  within  her 
with  regret  and  fear.  Naturally  of  a  nervous 
temperament,  her  strength  now  began  to  fail 
her,  and  though  she  struggled  hard  for  mas 
tery,  her  physical  powers  were  not  equal  to 
her  mental  resolve ;  and  declaring  that  she 
could  sit  on  her  horse  no  longer,  her  compan 
ion  sprang  to  the  ground  only  in  time  to  re 
ceive  her  fainting  form  in  his  arms,  and  gently 
to  lay  her  upon  the  green  sward  and  moss  of 
the  forest,  pale  as  death  itself,  and  now  quite 
insensible  to  anything  about  her.  He  paused 
for  a  moment  as  she  lay  there  so  pale,  yet  so 
beautiful,  to  note  by  the  dim  light  the  extraor 
dinary  loveliness  that  presented  itself  to  his 
gaze.  Within  the  last  half  hour  his  manner 
had  changed  in  a  marked  degree.  There  was 
a  bolder  and  freer  air  in  his  bearing,  and  he 
looked  about  him  like  one  who  felt  at  home, 
not  like  a  person  who  had  lost  his  way  in  the 
forest.  He  was  no  longer  the  effeminate  and 
gentle  suitor  who  had  frequented  the  halls  of 
Ghertstein  ;  there  was  a  proud  defiance  in  his 
eye,  and  a  self-reliance  in  every  action,  tvat 
bespoke  him  to  be  a  man  accustomed  to  bold 
and  ready  action. 

He  paused  only  for  a  moment,  as  he  bent 
over  the  lifeless  form  of  the  lady  Gustine, 
then  drawing  from  his  breast  a  small  silver 
call,  he  uttered  a  shrill  rolling  note  that  was 
answered  in  a  moment  after  before  the  echoes 
had  died  way  among  the  aisles  of  the  forest. 
Before  the  lady  had  fairly  recovered  her 
senses,  six  horsemen  dashed  up  to  the  scene, 


86 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


armed  cap-a-pie  in  the  costume  of  Italian 
banditti. 

"  Carli,"  said  the  lady's  companion,  to  the 
foremost  of  the  party. 

"  Captain,"  said  the  robber,  whom  the 
reader  has  already  met. 

"  Make  a  light  litter  of  small  boughs,  and 
throw  your  coats  over  it.  The  lady  must  be 
carried." 

The  order  was  instantly  obeyed,  and  a  few 
green  boughs  ingeniously  braided  together, 
were  covered  with  the  upper  garments  of  the 
men,  after  which,  her  late  companion  lifted 
her  still  half  unconscious  form  upon  it,  and 
thus  she  was  conveyed  still  deeper  into  the 
forest's  depth,  as  gently  as  though  she  slept 
upon  her  bed. 

The  party  had  not  proceeded  more  than  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  followed  by  their  well  train 
ed  horses,  before  they  came  out  upon  the  open 
circle  or  clearing,  before  described  in  these 
pages,  and  upon  which  opened  on  the  east 
side  the  mouth  of  the  Banditti's  Cave  ! 

Into  this  the  party  gently  filed,  under  the  di 
rection  of  their  leader,  and  the  lady  was  safe 
ly  deposited  within  with  as  much  quiet  uncon 
cern  and  want  of  curiosity  on  the  part  of  the 
men  as  though  it  were  all  an  every  day  occur 
rence  with  them.  But  a  keen  observer  would 
have  noticed  that  they  constantly  watched 
their  leader's  eye. 

True  authority  effects  its  will  without  either 
bustle  or  confusion.  It  is  not  your  ranting, 
profane  commander  who  is  quickest  obeyed, 
but  it  is  rather  he,  who,  feeling  he  requires 
no  foreign  aid  of  effect  to  enforce  his  orders, 
issues  them  almost  in  a  whisper,  or  may  be 
by  a  look.  It  was  thus  with  him  who  directed 
and  controlled  the  party  we  have  referred  to ; 
his  slightest  sign  was  noted  and  its  import  at 
once  understood ;  his  every  movement  had  an 
air  of  authority  about  it,  and  doubtless  his 
right  to  the  respect  that  he  thus  elicited,  had 
been  sustained  by  more  than  one  fearful  ex 
ample. 

It  seemed  perhaps  a  little  singular  to  see 
those  fierce  and  daring  spirits  thus  held  in 


check  and  directed  by  the  silent  arm  of  disci 
pline  ;  in  physical  power  not  one  of  them  but 
was  far  more  than  a  match  for  their  leader, 
but  they  had  early  become  aware  of  the  im 
mense  importance  in  a  promiscuous  company 
like  theirs  of  sustaining  .the  authority,  and 
respecting  it,  too,  of  one  directing  mind. 
Habit  and  daily  custom  had  caused  this  con 
viction  to  grow  into  a  law,until  he  who  had  been 
thus  entrusted  with  their  entire  obedience  had 
shown  himself  mentally  their  masters,  as  well 
as  sustaining  that  position  by  appointment  and 
long  service. 

The  leader  looked  about  him  thoughtfully 
for  a  moment,  as  if  to  take  in  the  position  of 
affairs,  and  inspect  the  condition  of  the  cave. 
Then  turning  again  to  his  companion,  he 
said: 

"  Carli." 

"  Yes,  captain." 

"  Is  everything  in  the  usual  condition  at  the 
cave  ?"  asked  the  leader. 

"  Yes,  captain." 

"  And  our  prisoner  ?" 

"  Which,  captain  ?" 

"  Which  ?" 

"  The  gentleman,  or  the  lady,  captain  ?" 

"  The  lady,  Carli,  is  no  prisoner." 

"  The  other  is  as  quiet  as  you  could  possi 
bly  wish,  captain.  He's  a  jewel  of  a  prisoner, 
who  loves  a  good  story,  and  who  makes  no  at 
tempt  to  escape  after  promising  not  to  do 
so." 

"  You  have  trusted  him  abroad,  then,  Car 
li,  have  you  ?" 

"  Only  under  our  own  eyes,  captain." 

"  Is  he  inquisitive  ?" 

"  No,  captain." 

"  And  has  caused  no  trouble,  then  ?" 

"  None,  save  that  he  will  sometimes  beat 
father  Blemen  at  chess." 

The  leader  smiled  and  turned  away,  enter 
ing  another  division  of  the  cave,  where  he 
might  doff  the  assumed  character  that  he 
bore. 

The  stratagem  had  succeeded,  and  the  lady 
Gustkie  was  a  prisoner. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 


KARL    BLASIUS,    THE    ROBBER. 

'Tis  of  a  lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 
The  very  last  of  that  illustrious  race. 


ROGERS. 


WHEN  the  lady  Gustine  fully  recovered  her 
consciousness,  she  found  herself  in  an  apart 
ment  lighted  only  by  the  flame  of  a  single 
hanging  lamp,  and  from  the  appearance  of  the 
place  she  knew  that  she  must  be  in  the  subdi 
vision  of  a  cave,  for  the  walls  and  roof  about 
her  were  of  solid  stone,  and  there  was  no  vis 
ible  opening  or  outlet,  while  a  half  undefined 
dampness  seemed  to  fill  the  air  and  to  rest  on 
the  cold  stones  that  surrounded  her  on  all  sides. 
A  slight  cough  that  escaped  her,  reverberated 
with  hollow  echoes  through  her  cell,  with  such 
grum  and  solemn  tones  as  almost  to  "startle 
her. 

She  had  been  sleeping,  doubtless,  for  a  con 
siderable  period  of  time,  for%she  felt  much  re 
freshed  in  body,  at  the  same  time  realizing  a 
faintness  and  hunger  that  convinced  her  she 
must  have  been  long  without  refreshments. — 
She  saw  that  she  had  been  upon  the  couch 
of  soft  skins,  where  she  had  slept  with  all  her 
clothes  about  her,  and  with  no  change,  save 
that  they  had  been  loosened,  to  admit  of  a  free 
circulation.  On  rising  she  found  a  small  ta 
ble  close  by  her  side,  upon  which  were  placed 
some  fruit  and  wine,  and  some  more  substan 
tial  food ;  of  the  latter  she  partook  with  avid 
ity,  of  the  former,  sparingly,  and  making  a 
hasty  toilet,  she  sought  for  the  door  of  this  sin 


gular  apartment ;  but  although  she  examined 
every  part  of  the  room  with  the  utmost  care 
and  patience,  she  could  in  no  way  discover  the 
door,  and,  indeed,  to  her  eyes,  the  place  seem 
ed  to  be  a  hollow,  scooped  out  from  the  very 
interior  of  the  massive  rock,  without  the  means 
of  either  ingress  or  egre?s. 

A  nervous  and  superstitious  feeling  crept 
over  her  as  she  seemed  to  realize  these  facts, 
and  she  shuddered  at  her  lone  condition.  She 
remembered  the  wild  stories  that  had  been  told 
her  in  childhood  about  fair  young  ladies  being 
stolen  away  by  some  evil  spirits  and  so  en 
chanted  as  either  to  sleep  for  many  years  in 
punishment  for  some  sin,  or  to  be  incarcerated 
until  some  good  fairy  should  discover  and  re 
lease  her.  It  seemed  to  her  but  a  few  hours 
comparatively  since  she  was  safe  in  her  father's 
hall ;  but  yet  it  might  be  a  hundred  years  ; 
and  thus  her  fancy  ran  wild  with  her  imagin 
ation,  into  most  fantastic  improbabilities. 

She  could  not  recall  the  fact  as  to  how  she 
came  there,  though  she  remembered  well  all 
things  up  to  the  period  when  she  was  so  exer 
cised  with  fatigue  and  fear  in  the  forest.  She 
could  recall  even  those  last  moments  of  con 
sciousness  when  her  sight  began  to  fail  her, 
and  she  half  slid,  half  fell  from  her  horse ;  but 
after  that  moment  all  was  a  blank. 


88 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


The  lady  Gustine  was  not  long  left  in 
doubt,  however,  fora  snap,  as  of  a  secret  spring, 
greeted  her  ears,  and  a  piece  of  the  rock  in  one 
side  of  the  cave  flew  open  as  if  by  magic,  and 
in  the  next  moment  she  found  herself  once 
more  with  her  companion  of  the  previous  day. 
They  gazed  at  each  other  for  some  minutes  in 
silence,  the  lady  like  one  who  had  been  sadly, 
deeply  wronged,  her  companion  with  an  ex 
pression  combining  love,  sarcasm  and  triumph, 
if  such  qualities  could  all  be  delineated  upon 
the  human  face  at  the  same  moment;  a  flood 
of  strange  and  contending  feelings  seemed 
coursing  through  his  brain,  while  his  soul  ap 
peared  to  be  too  full  for  utterance. 

His  dress  had  also  undergone  a  marked 
change  since  she  had  seen  him  last,  and  alto 
gether,  with  the  surroundings  and  associations 
of  the  place,  he  now  seemed  to  her  like  anoth 
er  being.  His  plain,  rich  suit,  of  English 
style  and  cut,  had  given  place  to  velvet  small 
clothes  and  brogans,  and  silk  hose,  while  a 
close  setting  scarlet  jacket,  trimmed  with  sil 
ver  lace,  covered  the  upper  portion  of  his  per 
son.  A  velvet  cap,  ornamented  with  a  single 
flowing  feather  of  snowy  whiteness,  completed 
his  costume.  The  handle  of  a  long  dirk  knife 
curiously  wrought  and  inlaid,  might  be  seen 
discovering  itself  from  the  folds  of  his  doublet, 
and  a  pair  of  pistols  were  worn  openly  in  a 
sword  belt.  Though  the  chains  for  its  sup 
port  being  at  his  side,  the  latter  weapon  was  not 
in  its  place. 

"  Am  la  prisoner  here,  sir  ?"  asked  the  lady 
Gustine,  at  length,  finding  that  her  singular 
companion  remained  silent,  and  seemingly  lost 
in  meditation. 

He  started  at  her  words  as  though  he  had 
been  in  a  dream,  and  then  said  : 

"  A   prisoner  ?     In   part,  lady,  yes,  and  in 
part,  no,  for  though  you  are  ostensibly  confin 
ed  within  this  cave,  still  you  are  none  the  less 
mistress  of  it  and  its  master  !" 
"  The  mistress  ?" 
"  Ay,  lady." 

"  You  speak  in  riddles,  sir ;  I  do  not  under 
stand  you,"  said  the  lady. 

"  You  will  find  it  an  easy  riddle  to  solve 
lady,"  replied  the  robber. 

"  I  understand  you  not,"  she  reiterated  with 
much  earnestness. 

"  Then  'tis  fitting  time  that  you  should  do 
so,"  he  replied.  "  Know,  lady,  if  you  do  not 


already  realize  the  fact,  that  I  am  no  English 
man,  nor  is  my  name  Robert  Stanley.  On  the 
contrary,  I  am  the  master  of  this  cave,  the 
leader  of  this  band  of  free  men,  and  bear  a 
name  that  has  often  caused  a  shudder  in  that 
fair  bosom." 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  exclaimed  lady  Gustine, 
half  suspecting  the  truth. 

"  I  am  Karl  Blasius !"  said  the  robber,  bend 
ing  his  keen  eye  upon  her. 

"  Gracious  heaven  protect  me,"  exclaimed 
the  lady  Gustine,  as  she  shrank  still  farther 
from  the  strange  being  before  her,  and  trem 
bling  at  the  disclosure  just  made  her. 

"  Nay,  lady  Gustine,  you  need  not  fear  me," 
he  said,  sadly.  "Listen  to  my  story,  and 
then  I  think  you  will  not  shudder  so  at  the 
sight  of  me." 

"  Go  on,  sir,"  said  the  lady  Gustine,  appear 
ing  to  recover  her  self-possession  suddenly, 
while  a  proud  and  dignified  air  diffused  itself 
quickly  over  her  expression  and  bearing. 

"  Lady,  I  once  told  you  the  story  of  my  pa 
rentage,  though  you  then  little  thought  that 
Karl  Blasius  spoke  to  you  ;  1  told  you  then  of 
the  influences  that  had  formed  the  character 
of  the  robber's  boy.  On  the  laws  that  had 
first  driven  my  father  from  their  protection 
and  then  punished  him  so  severely,  I  was  daily 
revenged,  and  the  purses  of  the  proud  nobles 
suffered  in  their  substance  at  my  pleasure. — 
But  upon  their  pride,  their  honor,  their  most 
sacred  treasures,  I  had  not  revenged  myself, 
and  though  I  had  sworn  before  heaven,  one 
day,  to  do  so,  yet  the  opportunity  had  never 
yet  occurred  for  my  purpose. 

'•  A  little  more  than  a  month  since,-  howev 
er,  fortune  seemed  to  favor  my  purpose,  and  I 
at  once  embarked  in  its  accomplishment.  At 
the  little  inn  of  Mornentz,  not  many  weeks 
since,  I  chanced  to  meetwith  an  Englishman  ; 
our  road  over  the  mountain  lay  through  the 
same  path  ;  I  led  him  hither.  He  had  letters 
of  introduction  and  credit  to  many  people  in 
Bronts,  among  the  rest  to  your  father.  I  was 
no  stranger  to  your  family,  nor  to  the  report 
ed  beauty  of  the  lady  Gustine  ;  I  saw  a  plan 
at  once  in  these  letters,  a  plan  ready  formed  to 
my  hands ;  I  assumed  the  name  of  Stanley, 
and  appeared  among  you." 
«  Horrible !" 

"  What  is  so  horrible,  lady  ?" 
"  That  YOU  should  have  committed  murder 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


to  possess  yourself  of  the  letters  wherewith 
you  deceived  my  father  and  myself,"  said  the 
lady  Gustine,  with  a  shudder  at  the  thought. 

"  Nay,  it  is  not  so  bad  as  you  suppose,  lady," 
said  the  robber ;  "  we  never  commit  murder, 
save  in  self-defence,  and  then  but  rarely.  But 
hear  my  story,  for  I  shall  speak  most  honest 
ly  and  truly  to  you,  the  only  being  of  thy 
class  or  sex  who  has  ever  interested  or  tamed 
me.  Will  it  please  you,  lady,  to  sit  down  ?" 

The  robber  saw  that  the  lady  was  weak 
from  late  excitement  and  nervousness,  and  she 
gladly  seated  herself  upon  a  rough  stool,  over 
which  her  companion  threw  a  wolf  skin,  as  he 
continued : 

"  I  came  to  your  father's  halls,  resolved  by 
untiring  assiduity  to  win  your  confidence  at 
least,  if  not  your  love,  and  then  to  steal  you 
away  from  your  home,  and,  like  a  gaudy  jew 
el  to  wear  you — " 

The  lady  Gustine  seemed  exercised  by  min 
gled  fear  and  indignation. 

"  But  alas  !  lady,"  continued  the  robber, 
"  the  chase  I  ran  was  my  own  undoing ;  while 
I  wooed  thee  in  jest,  as  I  supposed,  my  heart 
was  in  earnest, and  I  discovered  at  last  that  1 
loved  you  only  too  sincerely.  Nay,  sneer  not 
at  me,  lady,  I  am  but  telling  thee  the  truth 
— I  am  not  suing  in  this  place — here,  I  alone 
command,  I  am  not  trying  to  persuade  or  in 
fluence  the  lady  Gustine  now — it  is  not  my 
object.  Well,  you  received  me  kindly,  most 
kindly,  you  even  listened  to  my  words  with 
more  than  ordinary  interest,  and  I  felt  that  al 
though  you  might  not  love,  yet  you  were  much 
interested  in  a  disguised  bandit.  At  length 
I  invented  the  story  of  the  ruined  tower,  and 
told  it  to  thee  to  excite  thy  curiosity.  We  rode 
out  together  and  alone,  such  a  chance  might 
never  again  occur ;  you  know  the  rest,  lady, 
you  were  brought,  insensible  through  fatigue 
and  fear,  to  this  cave." 

"  A  brave  business,  truly,  to  ruin  and  de 
ceive  a  defenceless  female,"  said  the  lady, 
struggling  to  keep  down  her  woman-spirit 
that  promised  every  moment  to  burst  forth  in 
sobs. 

"  Your  sarcasm  is  just,"  said  the  robber, 
with  conscious  guilt. 

"  It  vvas  base,  base  beyond  precedent,"  con 
tinued  the  lady,  bitterly. 

"  I  acknowledge  all,"  said  the  robber,  "  but 
I  could  tell  thee,  lady,  of  far  more  bitter  griev 


ances  by  thy  class  of  society,  daily  and  hourly 
perpetrated  upon  the  humble  peasantry  of  the 
valley,  grievances  to  which  thine  would  not 
bear  a  feather's  weight  in  comparison. — 
What  does  your  noble  think  of  deceiving  and 
betraying  the  honor  of  a  poor  peasant  girl  ? 
Nothing,  she  is  humble  in  the  sight  of  the 
world,  a  mere  tool,  a  plaything  for  the  proud 
and  rich  :  she  has  no  redress,  but  thus  broken 
hearted  and  ruined,  goes  down  to  the  grave, 
which  not  even  a  rude  stone  will  mark  out  in 
commemoration." 

"  What  care  your  castle-encircled  noblemen 
for  the  starving  hamlets  within  sight  of  their 
turret  windows  ?  Nothing,  they  laugh  and 
jest  as  heartily  as  though  there  were  no  such 
thing  as  hunger  about  them,  washing  down 
their  rich  food  by  draughts  of  wine  that  would 
feed  and  clothe  a  province.  Lady,  belong  to 
that  humble  class,  though  your  father's  cousin, 
and  for  years  have  I  robbed  the  rich  to  feed  the 
poor,  and  have  humbled  the  purse-proud  to  ex 
alt  the  lowly." 

"  Your  father  was  absent  yesterday,  lady 
Gustine,  to  the  northern  valley,  for  the  purpose 
of  ejecting  a  poor  tenant  from  his  lease,  and 
drive  him  from  his  humble  shelter,  wife,  chil 
dren  and  all,  because  forsooth,  his  crops  had 
failed  him,  and  he  had  not  the  means  to  pay 
the  stipend  demanded.  The  poor  man  met 
him  though,  with  a  purse  that  settled  all,"  said 
the  robber,  with  a  glow  of  satisfaction  upon  his 
cheek  ;  "  for  I  knew  your  father's  business, 
and  defeated  his  object,  and  last  night  that 
poor  man's  prayer  was  breathed  for  Karl  Bla- 
sius,  the  robber !  while  thy  father,  lady,  re 
turned  to  his  princely  halls  to  find  his  daugh 
ter  stolen  away,  without  the  least  trace  of  her, 
or  suspicion  whence  she  had  gone." 

Lady  Gustine  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"  I  see  you  are  heeding  me  closely,  lady," 
said  the  robber,  marking  her  exhibition  of  feel 
ing;  "but  this  is  only  one  instance.  I  could 
name  you  a  hundred  within  an  hour,  Do  you 
wonder  now  why  the  rich  are  so  hated  by  the 
poor — do  you  not  see  how  high  are  the  bar 
riers  that  exist  between  the  humble  and  the 
proud?" 

"  And  what  does  all  this  portend  to  me  ?" 
at  length  asked  the  lady  Gustine.  "  Why  do 
you  relate  these  things  to  me  at  this  time  ? 


90 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


How  do  they  affect  me,  or  the  injury  you  have 
done  me  ?" 

"  These  matters  I  have  recited,  lady,  to  show 
you  the  influences  that  have  so  tempted  me, 
and  spurred  me  on  to  seek  the  revenge  that  I 
have  already  named ;  but  when  I  look  upon 
thee,  as  now,  I  realize  how  feeble  is  the  will, 
how  subtle  the  reason  within  us.  I  remem 
ber  no  longer  my  vows  and  my  long  cherish 
ed  animosity ;  they  vanish  like  a  dream,  and 
I  can  only  realize  how  much,  how  truly  I 
love." 

"  Dost  remember  the  story  I  told  thee  once 
at  thy  father's  castle  of  the  fair  and  beautiful 
Julia  Blasius  ?" 

"  I  remember." 

"  Dost  realize  that  I  am  that  child  which 
she  bore  in  her  arms  when  she  was  spurned 
from  her  father's  gates?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  lady,  thoughtfully. 

"  Then,  lady,  can  you  wonder  that  I  was  in 
cited  to  such  revenge  as  that  of  humbling  one 
of  thy  proud  estate  ?" 

The  lady  was  silent. 

"  And  yet,"  continued  the  robber,  "  so  dear 
ly  have  I  learned  to  love  thee,  that  all  the  re 
venge  that  prompted  me  is  gone.  I  am  no 
longer  bound  by  its  power,  but  am  enchained 
by  quite  as  binding  a  force,  the  silken  ties  of 
the  heart.  My  whole  purpose  of  life  seems 
changed.  I  see  the  things  that  surround  me 
with  different  eyes ;  the  light  that  guides  me 
takes  the  hue  of  thy  divinity;  the  wood,  the 
glen,  even  these  rude  and  boisterous  spirits 
that  own  my  authority,  all  seem  changed  to 
me.  All  my  thoughts  are  of  love." 

"  Love  !"  uttered  the  lady,  with  deep  scorn 
upon  her  lip. 

"  Ay,  lady,  love,  deep,  passionate,  absorb 
ing  love.  My  revenge  is  gone,  my  anger  is 
no  more.  I  look  and  I  love,  and  only  turn 
away  to  dream  and  think  of  love." 

"  I  scorn  both  you  and  the  passion  you  so 
unblushingly  avow." 

"  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  you  should 
do  so  at  first,"  he  replied. 

"  At  first  !" 

"  Ay,  until  you  shall  have  become  famil 
iar  with  the  change  that  has  come  over  your 
fortune." 

And  will  you  really  detain  me  here  as  a 
piisoner  against  my  will?"  she  asked,  trem 


bling  once  more  with  fear,  and  losing  all  the 
pride  that  had  so  lately  actuated  her. 

"  Lady,  I  have  ventured  too  much  in  my  ef 
fort  to  gain  possession  of  the  coveted  prize,  for 
us  to  part  now,"  said  the  robber,  with  empha 
sis. 

"Will  heaven  desert  me  in  this  fearful 
place  ?"  sobbed  the  lady  Gustine.  "  Alas,  alas, 
I  am  lost  forever." 

"  Nay,  Gustine,  be  calm,"  said  the  robber, 
soothingly,  "  you  need  fear  no  harm  here  nor 
enforcement  stronger  than  gentle  words ;  if 
these  shall  fail  me  to  win  thy  willing  hand, 
then  time  must  change  thy  purpose,  and  final 
ly  I  think  thou  wilt  go  cheerfully  with  me  be 
fore  the  priest — ay,  in  spite  of  that  scornful 
curl  of  thy  beautiful  lip,  still  I  shall  succeed. 
I  shall  see  that  you  are  well  attended,  and  want 
for  no  comfort  that  my  poor  means  can  com 
mand.  By  touching  that  silver  gong  that 
hangs  yonder  from  the  walls,  you  can  at  all 
times  summon  one  of  your  own  sex,  whose 
constant  duty  it  will  be  to  attend  your  pleas 
ure.  And  now  for  the  present,  lady  Gustine, 
farewell." 

"  Stay." 

»  Well,  lady." 

"  Will  you  not  free  me,  and  send  me  back  to 
my  father,  that  I  may  bless  you  ?"  sobbed  the 
lady  Gustine. 

"  Lady,  I  cannot." 

"Be  generous;  O,  set  me  free  again,"  she 
exclaimed,  in  agony  of  feeling. 

The  robber  had  spoken  truly ;  he  did  love 
the  lady,  and  as  she  addressed  him  thus  he 
seemed  to  waver  in  his  purpose,  her  tears 
seemed  to  move  him  greatly,  and  he  looked  up 
on  her  with  real  anguish  depicted  in  his  face. 
Gustine  saw  the  transient  advantage  she  had 
gained,  and  said,  approaching,  and  even  kneel 
ing  at  his  feet : 

"  O,  take  a  noble  revenge,  I  pray  you,  and  send 
me  home  again." 

"  Lady,  rise,"  said  the  robber,  "  implore  me 
not  thus.  I  would  go  through  any  danger  to 
serve  thee,  but  to  part  with  thee  now  would 
be  impossible ;  I  could  not  bring  my  mind  to 
that.  Still,  fear  not  for  thyself,  love  shall  re 
spect  and  protect"  thee." 

As  he  said  this,  the  robber  hastily  withdrew 
from  the  apartment,  as  though  he  feared  for 
his  resolution  if  he  stayed  longer. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


THE   TAMBOURINE    GIRL. 

"  A  dancing  shape  an  image  gay — 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  to  waylay." 


THE  lady  Gustine  remained  as  the  robber 
had  left  her,  for  a  long  period,  musing  upon 
her  situation.  She  reflected  upon  what  he 
had  said,  and  by  weighing  each  word,  endeav 
ored  to  judge  of  his  plan  and  purpose  towards 
herself.  She  depicted  in  fearful  and  vivid  col 
ors  her  forlorn  condition,  and  she  wept  bitterly 
as  she  thought  how  terrible  would  be  her  fath 
er's  anguish  when  he  found  her  gone.  She 
knew  that  no  clue  could  be  had  as  to  what 
had  become  of  her,  for  she  had  mentioned  her 
destination  to  no  one  when  she  left  the  cas 
tle,  and  she  fully  realized  that  there  would  be 
no  indicating  or  guiding  circumstances  which 
might  lead  to  her  discovery.  At  one  moment 
she  remembered  that  many  must  have  seen 
and  recognized  her  as  she  rode  out  of  the  town 
beside  him  who  had  been  known  as  Robert 
Stanley,  but  this  would  form  no  chain  of  guid 
ance,  for  he  who  represented  the  English 
stranger,  was  unsuspected  of  any  connection 
with  the  robbers,  and  his  disappearance  would 
be  looked  upon  probably  as  quite  as  singular 
as  her  own,  by  those  who  had  known  him  of 
late. 

In  this  mood,  despair  seemed  to  envelope 
the  very  soul  of  the  fair  prisoner. 

At  last  her  eyes  accidentally  settled  upon 
the  gong  to  which  the  robber  had  referred,  and 
hoping  in  some  way  to  learn  more  of  her  true 
situation,  she  touched  it  lightly,  when  a  young 


girl  of  some  fifteen  summers  entered  the 
apartment  by  the  means  already  described,  and 
asked  her  pleasure.  The  lady  gazed  at  her 
for  a  moment  as  if  trying  to  recall  her  fea 
tures,  for  she  was  sure  she  had  seen  them  be 
fore,  and  in  spite  of  the  anxiety  of  mind  that 
she  experienced,  she  could  not  but  admire  the 
rude,  peculiar  beauty  of  the  girl's  face  and 
form.. 

"  Come  hither,  my  good  girl,  who  are 
you?"  asked  she. 

"  My  name  is  Alanda,"  said  the  young  girl, 
curtseying  modestly. 

"  I  have  seen  you  somewhere  before,  and 
yet  I  cannot  tell  where  it  was." 

"  I  remember,"  she  answered,  looking  arch 
ly  at  the  lady  Gustine. 

"  And  where  was  it,  pray  ?"  f 

"In the  market  place  of  Bronts,  where  you 
gave  me  a  golden  eighth." 

"  O,  I  remember;  you  are  the  dancing  girl," 
said  the  lady,  recalling  the  scene  before  re 
ferred  to." 

"  You  then  were  not  stolen,  away  from  your 
home,  but  perhaps  were  born  here." 

"  Stolen  ?  0,  no,  lady,  this  is  my  home. — 
My  father  is  lieutenant  to  the  brave  Karl  Bla- 
sius." 

"  And  are  you  happy  and  contented  to  live 
among  robbers,  my  good  girl  ?" 


92 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  Among  robbers,  lady  ?  Our  people  only 
rob  the  rich,  and  surely  that's  no  harm." 

"  Alas  !  for  the  teaching  that  has  fitted  thee 
for  such  belief,"  said  the  lady  half  to  herself. 

"  Are  you  the  lady  they  say  our  captain 
loves  so  much  ?"  asked  the  girl,  innocently. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  lady  Gustine, 
with  a  shudder. 

"  Why,  the  men  say  that  his  very  nature 
has  changed  since  he  knew  you,  and  that  he  is 
moody  and  thoughtful  all  the  time  now-a- 
days ;  he  must  love  you  very  dearly  I  should 
think,  to  make  him  alter  so  much,"  said  the 
girl  innocently,  as  she  looked  with  admiration 
upon  the  lady's  beauty. 

"  Who  lives  in  this  cave  ?"  asked  the  lady 
Gustine,  after  a  few  moments' pause. 

"  We  all  live  here — the  single  men  away 
back  in  the  rock,  and  the  front  part  is  divided 
off  for  the  officers  and  their  families.  This 
is  the  best  division,  and  the  folks  say  it  is  a 
great  curiosity,  and  that  is  the  only  entrance," 
said  the  girl,  pointing  to  the  little  opening 
where  she  had  come  in. 

"Is  there  no  one  else  confined  here  besides 
myself  ?"  asked  the  lady. 

"No." 

"What  became  of  an  Englishman  named 
Stanley,  who  came  here  some  time  since  ?' ' 

"  O,  I  forgot  him ;  he's  here  still,"  replied 
the  girl,  correcting  herself. 

"  Indeed  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  do  you  know  Mr.  Stanley  ?"  asked 
Alanda,  with  animation. 

"  No." 

"  How  did  you  know  he  was  here  then  ?" 
asked  the  child,  innocently  enough. 

"     heard  so." 

"  O,  he's  a  fine  gentleman,"  continued  the 
girl,  "  everybody  likes  him,  and  they  say  that 
the  captain  is  going  to  let  him  go  again,  as  he 
has  done  with  some  letters  he  had  of  his,  and 
will  not  now  fear  to  have  him  at  liberty  once 
more." 

"  When  will  Mr.  Stanley  go,  my  good 
girl  ?"  asked  the  lady,  eagerly. 

"  I  don't  know  when ;  but  it  will  be  in  a 
few  days  I  think." 

Gustine  reflected  shrewdly  for  some  mo 
ments  upon  the  information  she  had  thus 
chanced  to  gain,  and  resolved  to  profit  by  it. 
First  she  wished  to  obtain  the  confidence  and 
friendship  of  the  girl,  and  then  she  hoped  to 


be  able  to  communicate  in  some  way  with  Mr. 
Stanley  before  his  departure,  so  as  to  let  her 
friends  know  where  she  was,  if  not  to  attempt 
to  make  her  escape  by  his  assistance.  Though 
burning  with  impatience  at  the  plan  she  had 
juet  conceived,  yet  the  lady  Gustine  was  suffi 
ciently  shrewd  not  to  betray  herself  even  to 
the  young  girl  who  stood  before  her,  but  pro 
ceeded  with  caution. 

"  Alanda,  come  hither  to  the  light.  Do  you 
think  this  is  a  pretty  ring  I"  asked  she,  show 
ing  a  chaste  pearl,  set  about  with  a  double  cir 
cle  of  tiny  diamonds. 

"  O,  beautiful,  very  beautiful,"  said  the  girl, 
in  delight,  at  the  ornament. 

"  Well,  take  it  and  wear  it  for  my  sake. — 
I  know  that  you  will  be  kind  to  me." 

"  O,  it  is  too  pretty  for  me,"  said  the  girl, 
hesitating.  "I  shouldn't  dare  to  take  it;  it 
must  be  very  valuable  too,  for  these  are  all  di 
amonds,"  she  continued,  as  she  counted  the 
little  brilliants. 

"  You  will  wear  it  for  my  sake,  I  know, 
wont  you  now,  Alanda  ?" 

"  If  you  really  wish  me  to,  I  will,"  said  the 
young  girl,  delighted. 

"  I  do — there  wear  it,  it  fits  very  well,"  she 
continued,  putting  it  upon  her  finger. 

"  0,  how  pretty." 

"  Can  you  read,  Alanda  ?"  asked  the  lady 
Gustine,  carelessly. 

"  No,  lady." 

"  That's  a  pity,  and  if  I  stay  here  long  I 
must  try  to  teach  you." 

As  the  lady  spoke,  she  took  a  small  ivory 
tablet  from  her  pocket,  and  wrote  something 
hurriedly  upon  its  leaves,  while  Alanda  was 
busy  examining  the  beauty  of  her  new  pres 
ent,  and  folding  them  once  more  together  and 
securing  them  by  the  spring  attached,  she  toy 
ed  with  the  tablet  covers,  so  small  and  finely 
wrought,  for  some  time,  as  though  she  were 
really  amused  with  the  examination,  and  then 
carelessly  turning  to  the  girl,  she  said  : 

"  Where  is  the  Englishman  confined,  Alan- 
da,  do  you  know,  my  good  girl  ?" 

"  O,  yes,  just  on  the  opposite  side  to  this. 
It's  only  a  few  steps." 

"  Do  you  ever  go  into  his  apartment  ?" 

"  O,  yes,  very  often,  I  always  carry  him  in 
his  dinner,"  she  replied. 

"  Have  you  carried  in  his  dinner  to-day  ?" 
asked  the  lady,  with  assumed  indifference. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


93 


"  Not  yet." 

"  When  you  go  in,  will  you  hand  him  this 
from  me,  without  letting  any  one  see  it,  Alan- 
da?" 

"What  for, my  lady?" 

"  O,  merely  to  please  me  ;  but  if  you  should 
let  any  one  know  know  it  I  should  be  offend 
ed." 

The  girl  paused  for  a  moment  in  thought, 
evidently  considering  whether  there  could  be 
any  harm  in  doing  so  trifling  an  errand,  and 
influenced  doubtless  not  a  little  by  her  pres 
ent,  she  replied  : 

"  Yes,  i  will  give  it  to  him,  if  it  will  please 
you  for  me  to  do  so." 

"  It  will  very  much." 

"  Then  1  will  do  it." 

"  That's  a  good  girl ;  now  you  may  go  ;  put 
it  in  your  bosom,  and  be  sure  that  no  one  sees 
it  at  all,  save  him." 

"  She  said  that  she  could  not  read,  so  un 
less  some  one  else  gets  the  tablets,  there  will 
be  no  danger  of  discovery,"  mused  lady  Gus- 
tine  to  herself.  "  It  cannot  be  that  the  girl  ap 
peared  thus  indifferent  that  she  might  deceive 
me,  she  was  too  innocent  for  that.  Mr.  Stan 
ley  must  be  a  gentleman,  and  thus  appealed 
to,  I  know  he  will  exert  himself  to  relieve  me, 
or  else  to  inform  my  father  of  my  unhappy  sit 
uation.  Hope  already  beams  in  upon  my  de 
spairing  heart.  All  is  not  blank  and  dark." 

Thus  saying,  she  seemed  to  find  fresh  life 
and  spirits,  and  her  fair  face  no  longer  appear 
ed  the  picture  of  despair  that  it  had  so  lately 
presented  ;  it  almost  looked  cheerful  and  con 
tented  now.  And  then  she  fell  to  considering 
what  sort  of  a  person  the  real  Mr.  Stanley  was, 
whom  she  had  just  addressed,  whether  he  was 
handsome  and  accomplished  ;  so  active  is  the 
mind,  under  all  circumstances.  Then  she 
would  content  herself  with  the  idea  that  he 
must  be  a  gentleman,  else  he  would  never' 
have  been  the  rightful  possessor  of  those  letters 
that  the  robber  had  presented  to  her  father. 

Thus  reasoning  with  herself,  she  approach 
ed  the  spot  at  which  the  door  opened  in  the 
wall,  but  so  nice  was  the  workmanship,  that 
it  was  with  no  little  difficulty  that  she  was 
enabled  at  last  to  discover  it,  and  found  as  she 
had  already  presumed,  that  it  opened  only 
from  the  outer  side,  where  the  spring  must  be 
inlaid  :  as  it  was  evidently  so  constructed  as 
to  lock  itself  on  being  closed.  With  nothing 


now  to  occupy  her  mind,  except  indeed,  the 
gloomy  thoughts  that  such  a  place  might  be 
supposed  most  readily  to  give  risp  to,  she  wan 
dered  hither  and  thither,  examining  the  cave 
and  its  furniture  with  the  most  minute  exact 
ness. 

There  was  a  table  on  one  side  of  the  apart 
ment,  upon  which  was  a  book  written  in  the 
Latin  language,  and  before  it  a  rude  crucifix, 
as  though  some  monk  or  devout  person  had 
occupied  the  cell,  and  close  beside  the  table 
there  hung  upon  the  wall  a  representation, 
finely  painted,  of  the  crucifixion  of  our  Sa 
viour,  with  some  lines  written  beneath  in  He 
brew.  Still  further  on  there  lay  upon  a  rude 
couch  made  from  hewn  timber,  the  hood  and 
cowl  of  a  friar,  with  his  staff,  gown  and  san 
dals.  This  must  be  the  room  recently  occu 
pied  by  some  monk,  she  thought,  and  as  she 
walked  on,  looking  here  and  there,  she  came 
upon  the  dress  of  a  Jew !  A  strange  train  of 
thought  came  over  her  at  once;  she  re 
membered  the  person  she  had  met  on  the  high 
way  when  riding  with  her  father,  and  all  was 
now  explained.  It  was  no  longer  a  mystery 
why  the  eyes  of  the  supposed  Jew  had  raised 
such  a  train  of  thoughts  in  her  memory,  now 
that  she  knew  who  he  was  ! 

In  a  little  niche  of  the  stone  wall  was  an 
ivory  image  of  the  virgin,  and  beside  it  lay 
the  buckle  and  belt  of  some  person,  a«d  a 
small  dagger  within  its  scabbard,  which  Gus- 
tine  seized,  and  thrust  into  her  bosom  with 
exultation.  It  would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  a 
description  of  the  thoughts  that  actuated  her 
brain  as  she  seized  that  tiny,  but  fatal  instru 
ment  ;  a  whole  tragedy  passed  across  her 
mind  in  one  instant  of  time,  as  she  hailed 
her  new  though  silent  friend  with  a  fearful 
smile  of  gratification.  If  all  else  fails  me, 
she  thought,  this  shall  be  my  last  resort. 

Still  persevering  in  her  search,  the  lady  found 
in  a  dark  recess,  some  Latin  and  German 
books,  but  mostly  in  manuscript,  with  a  high 
ly  illuminated  edition  of  the  Bible ;  all  these 
tokens  went  to  convince  her  that  the  apart 
ment  had  been  the  icsort  of  some  monk, 
either  formerly  or  perhaps  at  the  present 
time. 

Near  the  entrance  of  the  cell,  as  she  look 
ed  on  with  curious  eye,  she  saw  upon  the 
floor  marks  of  blood  !  Perhaps  the  vital  tide 
of  some  poor  wretch  confined  here  like  herself, 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


and  who  in  a  struggle  for  liberty  was  doubt 
less  slain  there  at  the  entrance  of  the  cave. 
It  was  in  dry  clots,  and  in  one  spot  it  was 
slippery,  and  Gustine  knew  that  it  must 
therefore  be  fresh  !  She  shuddered  and  turn 
ed  pale  at  the  thought,  and  wandered  towards 
the  table  upon  which  were  the  cross  and  em 
blem,  and  prostrating  herself  before  it,  she 
prayed  long 'and  fervently,  for  strength  and 
guidance  in  her  unhappy  situation,  and  more 
than  all,  she  prayed  for  comfort  and  conso 
lation  to  her  father,  who  even  then  was  doubt 
less  weeping  for  her  loss.  Whatever  might 
be  the  faults  of  the  lord  of  Ghertstein — en 
gendered  more  by  his  position,  doubtless,  than 
from  any  real  hardness  of  heart — his  child 
loved  him  well  and  truly ;  he  had  ever  been 
a  kind  and  dear  parent  to  her,  and  she  cherish 
ed  and  revered  him.  Her  prayer  for  him  at 
this  trying  time  was  therefore  unselfish  and 
devout. 

She  rose  from  her  devotion,  calmer  and 
more  self-possessed,  and  again  traversed  the 
cave,  examining  its  peculiar  ornaments  and 
furniture.  She  tried  to  read  the  illumed 
pages  of  the  Bible  that  she  found  lying 
among  the  books,  but  its  letters  were  more 
like  hieroglyphics  to  her  eyes  than  like  any 
alphabetical  characters  that  she  had  ever  been 
taught.  It  was  one  of  those  evidences  of 
patience  and  perseverance  emanating  from  the 
early  priests  who  thus  consumed  "midnight  oil" 
in  making  copies  of  the  holy  book  which  their 
religion  taught  them  should  be  read  only  by 
themselves,  and  not  trusted  to  the  indiscrim 
inate  masses.  The  lady  gazed  upon  the  fine 
artistic  piece  of  copying,  and  interested  her 
self  for  some  time  with  its  pages. 

Then  again  in  her  nervous  agitation,  she 
reviewed  her  present  situation,  recalled  the 
past  few  weeks  of  her  life  from  the  period 
when  she  had  first  made  the  acquaintance  of 
him  who  had  so  cruelly  betrayed  her  confi 
dence,  and  now  held  her  a  prisoner.  All  this 
was  a  vivid  picture,  but  when  she  attempted 


to  fathom  the  future,  then  she  trembled  in 
deed.  Of  course  she  knew  the  robber's  pur 
pose  ;  he  had  already  avowed  it  to  her — that 
she  should  become  his  bride ! 

"  The  wife  of  Karl  Blasius,  the  robber !" 

As  the  lady  Gustine  repeated  these  words, 
they  seemed  to  excite  her  to  such  a  degree 
that  it  brought  over  her  appearance  a  seeming 
calmness,  and  could  the  robber  have  seen  the 
expression  of  her  face  as  she  quietly  drew  the 
dagger  she  had  found  in  the  cave,  from  her 
bosom  and  examine  its  point,  he  would  have 
been  satisfied  that  he  could  never  press  that 
form  to  his  heart  without  seeing  it  in  the  next 
instant  a  corpse ! 

At  last  in  her  impatience  she  once  more 
touched  the  gong  and  summoned  Alanda. 

"  Did  you  give  the  tablets  to  Mr.  Stanley, 
my  good  girl  ?"  she  asked  of  her. 

"  No,  my  lady,"  she  replied,  "  I  have  not 
yet  been  into  his  apartment." 

"  Will  you  not  go  in  there  soon  ?"  asked 
she,  with  impatience. 

"  As  you  sounded  the  gong,  I  was  just  going 
there,"  said  Alanda. 

"  Go  there,  go,  quick  as  thou  wilt,  I  do  not 
want  thee  any  longer,"  said  the  lady  Gus 
tine,  nervously. 

"  Yes,  lady,  you  can  ring  again,  if  you  want 
me,"  replied  the  girl,  pleasantly. 

How  impatiently  did  the  lady  Gustine 
await  the  lapse  of  sufficient  time  for  her  once 
more  to  summon  the  girl.  She  could  scarce 
ly  endure  the  suspense  that  she  so  keenly 
experienced,  but  walked  her  narrow  cell  with 
a  hurried  and  irregular  step,  ever  and  anon 
pausing  before  the  entrance,  to  listen  for  some 
sounds  without,  that  might  indicate  to  her  the 
movements  there ;  and  thus  she  continued  to 
do  for  some  thirty  minutes,  when  becoming 
nervous  beyond  longer  endurance,  and  most 
anxious  to  kno,w  the  result  of  her  message  by 
Alanda,  she  once  more  sounded  the  silver 
gong. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


THE    TWO    PRISOJN  ERS. 

Morn  once  again  !     Morn  in  the  lone  dim  cell, 
The  cavern  of  the  prisoner's  fever  dream, 
And  morn  on  all  the  green,  rejoicing  hills. 


HEMANS. 


THE  reader  must  now  go  back  with  us  to 
the  night  when  the  two  travellers  made  their 
way  through  the  depths  of  the  forest,  amid 
those  strange  and  mysterious  noises,  until 
they  finally  arrived  where  we  left  them  at  the 
bandit's  cave.  Ere  this  it  has  doubtless  been 
understood  that  the  Englishman  whom  we 
met  at  the  little  inn  of  Mornentz,  and  whom 
the  robber  chief  had  cunningly  led  to  his  cave, 
was  Robert  Stanley,  whose  letters  KarlBlasius 
had  boldly  improved,  in  order  to  enable  him 
to  carry  out  his  designs  upon  the  noble  and 
unsuspecting  family  of  Ghertstein,  and  during 
which  time,  of  course,  the  Englishman  had 
been  closely  confined  at  the  cave,  in  order  to 
prevent  the  discovery  of  the  trick  the  robber 
was  playing.  The  reader  has  already  noticed 
how  the  prisoner  passed  his  time  in  listening 
to  the  wild  stories  of  the  robber  band. 

Karl  Blasius  had  now  fully  succeeded  in 
his  evil  design  upon  the  gentle  lady  Gustine, 
or  at  least  as  far  as  he  could  do  by  means  of 
the  disguise  he  had  so  cunningly  assumed, 
and  so  well  personated,  and  it  now  only  re 
mained  for  him  to  release  his  unjustly-retain 
ed  prisoner ;  and  yet  the  execution  of  this 
design  was  not  unattended  with  most  serious 
objections  to  his  mind,  and  he  weighed  the 
matter  well  before  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
the  object.  Of  course,  he  knew  very  well 


that  no  power  upon  earth  could  prevent  her 
father  from  attacking  his  stronghold,  if  he 
could  but  discover  the  right  road  to  it,  and  be 
lieved  his  child  to  be  there ;  therefore,  though 
he  could  easily  conduct  the  Englishman  out 
of  the  forest  by  a  route  so  complicated  and  ob 
scure  as  utterly  to  confound  all  his  ideas  of 
locality,  yet  the  fact  of  his  afterwards  appear 
ing  with  his  story  at  Bronts,  would  betray  all. 

In  this  dilemma,  the  robber  seemed  to  be 
puzzled  as  to  what  he  should  do.  He  could 
not  make  up  his  mind  to  take  the  English 
man's  life,  as  he  had  in  no  wise  offended,  but 
on  the  contrary  had  ever  made  himself  most 
agreeable,  companionable  and  contented,  dur 
ing  the  period  that  he  was  informed  at  the 
outset  he  must  remain  at  the  forest  cave. — 
Various  schemes  suggested  themselves  to  the 
robber's  mind,  but  none  appeared  to  satisfy 
him.  He  knew  that  any  promise  elicited, 
would  not  be  considered  binding,  when  the 
prisoner  was  once  free  from  the  force  that  had 
exacted  it,  and  most  certainly  he  could  get  no 
voluntary  one  from  the  Englishman.  Even 
the  sanctity  of  an  oath  was  annulled,  when  it 
was  given  under  forcible  eliciting. 

As  to  the  members  of  the  band,  they  had 
generally  become  much  attached  to  the  prison 
er.  The  fact  was,  he  was  a  bit  of  a  philoso 
pher,  travelling  for  his  pleasure,  and  he  was 


96 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


not  one  to  let  any  mawkish  sense  of  delicacy 
prevent  him  from  making  himself  comfortable. 
He  was  a  student,  too,  of  human  nature,  and 
did  not  regret  this  opportunity  of  undestanding 
the  phases  of  life  he  met  with  among  these 
desperate  men,  provided  he  could  do  so  with 
out  material  injury  to  himself  or  others. — 
Upon  voluntarily  giving  his  word  as  a  gentle 
man  that  he  would  not  attempt  an  escape,  or 
to  leave  the  cave  until  he  was  permitted  to  do 
so  freely,  he  was  allowed  to  go  abroad  in  its 
immediate  vicinity  to  seek  that  exercise  that 
he  found  he  so  much  needed.  On  such  occa 
sions,  he  not  unfrequently  joined  in  the  sports 
of  the  band,  and  created  no  little  envy  among 
them  by  his  feats  of  strength  and  remarkable 
agility  in  manly  exercise. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  at  the  cave, 
at  the  period  when  we  would  again  introduce 
the  reader  there,  and  when  the  lady  Gustine 
despatched  the  tablets  secretly  by  the  dancing 
girl,  Alanda,  to  the  Englishman.  As  the 
young  girl  entered  the  apartment  of  the  latter 
at  the  usual  meal  hour  to  serve  it,  as  was  her 
custom,  she  placed  the  food  before  him,  and 
after  a  few  moments'  pause,  she  handed  the 
tablets  as  she  had  been  requested  by  the  lady. 
Not  a  little  surprised,  the  Englishman  opened 
the  tiny  leaves,  and  with  much  curiosity  read 
the  following  lines,  traced  in  a  hasty  hand  : 

"  SIR  : 

"  I  am,  like  yourself,  a  prisoner  here. 
I  learn  that  your  name  is  Stanley,  doubtless 
the  gentleman  whose  letters  of  introduction  to 
my  father's  house,  and  that  of  many  others  of 
Bronts,  have  been  feloniously  purloined,  and 
used  by  another,  who  has  thus  been  enabled 
to  impose  upon  us  all,  and  had  so  far  gained 
my  confidence  as  to  be  enabled  to  ensnare  me 
hither  and  imprison  me.  The  object  of  this 
hasty  scroll,  is  to  beg  that  you  will,  if  possi 
ble,  communicate  with  me.  If  this  may  not 
be,  as  I  learn  that  you  are  soon  to  leave  here, 
1  pray  that  you  will  inform  my  father  where  I 
am.  He  is  the  lord  of  Ghertstein,  and  wift 
bless  you  for  the  service.  The  bearer  of  this 
tells  me  that  she  cannot  read,  and  therefore 
she  will  not  understand  this.  I  have  told  her 
to 'give  you  this  as  a  present  from  me. 
think  she  may  be  trusted  to  return  it.  Write 
whatever  you  think  best,  and  send  it  back, 
saying  to  her  that  it  is  of  no  use  to  you,  and 


that  I  had  better  keep  it.     Let  my  situation 
be  my  apology  for  this. 

"  GUSTINE  DE  B." 

Robert  Stanley  suppressed  the  wonder 
that  for  a  moment  possessed  him,  and  whist 
ling  a  light  air,  afterwards  partook  of  some  of 
the  food  that  had  been  prepared  for  him,  en 
gaging  Alanda  in  a  lively  and  humorous  vein 
of  conversation,  and  while  he  did  so,  stealing 
an  opportunity  hastily  to  write  some  lines 
upon  the  tablets  and  close  them  up  again. — 
Before  the  girl  left  him,  he  said  : 

"  Alanda,  you  may  take  this  back  again  to 
the  lady,  and  tell  her  it  is  of  no  use  to  me ;  she 
had  better  keep  it  herself.  Wont  you,  my 
good  girl  ?  And  you  needn't  let  any  one 
know  about  it,  Alanda." 

"  0,  yes.  I'll  do  anything  for  you,  Mr. 
Stanley,  and  just  as  you  say." 

"  That's  a  good  girl,  and  when  I  get  to  the 
next  town,  I  must  send  you  a  present." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  this  lady  ?"  asked  Alan- 
da,  placing  the  tablets  in  her  bosom. 

"  No— why  ?" 

"  You  never  saw  her  ?" 

"  No." 

"  She's  very  beautiful." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  the  Englishman. 

"  I  do  indeed ;  such  hair  and  eyes,  and 
such  a  sweet  little  mouth,  I  never  saw  before. 
She  gave  me  this  ring  when  I  was  in  there — 
see  how  bright  it  is — is  it  not  beautiful,  Mr. 
Stanley  ?" 

"  Very,  very  pretty,  Alanda,  but  don't  for 
get  to  return  her  those  tablets." 

"  O,  I'll  remember  that,"  replied  the  girl, 
still  admiring  the  ring  as  she  went,  and  evi 
dently  too  much  taken  up  with  her  present  to 
consider  the  errand  that  she  so  thoughtlessly 

undertook. 

i 

At  this  moment,  just  as  she  left  the  Eng 
lishman,  she  heard  the  gong  that  lady  Gus 
tine  in  her  impatience  had  once  more  rung, 
and  without  further  delay,  she  hastened  to 
answer  the  summons.  Perhaps  it  was  fortu 
nate  that  the  lady  Gustine  happened  to  sound 
the  gong  at  this  moment,  as  it  prevent 
ed  Alanda  from  losing  time  to  go  in  any 
other  direction  with  the  tablets,  which  once 
seen,  even  by  accident,  would  bave  exposed 
her  to  a  more  rigorous  and  close  confinement. 


$ZF  The  fourth  number  of  this  work  will  ?>e  published  Saturday  May  11. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL— [CONTINUED.] 


"  Well,  did  you  deliver  the  tablets,  Alanda, 
as  I  requested  you  ?"  asked  the  lady,  impa 
tiently,  though  she  strove  to  suppress  her  feel 
ings,  and  awaited  until  the  girl  had  closed  the 
entrance  once  more  behind  her. 

"  Yes,  lady,"  she  replied,  taking  the  article 
referred  to  from  her  bosom. 

"  What  did  he  say,  Alanda?" 

"  He  said  it  was  of  no  use  to  him,  and  that 
you  had  better  keep  it  yourself." 

"  0,  he  did,"  said  lady  Gustine,  taking  the 
tablets,  and  eagerly  reading  as  follows  : 

"LADY  : 

"  Your  singular  position  is  known  to 
me;  at  this  moment  I  cannot  advise  you  of 
what  means  it  will  be  best  to  adopt  for  your 
release,  but  I  will  find  means  to  do  so  ere 
long.  Like  yourself,  1  am  still  a  prisoner, 
though  they  have  informed  me  that  my  re 
lease  will  soon  be  granted.  Be  assured,  lady, 
that  I  will  never  desert  you  here,  now  that  I 
am  aware  of  your  situation,  but  will  discover 
some  means  for  your  escape  before  I  leave  the 
cave  myself.  You  seem  to  understand  that  I 
was  captured  and  my  letters  of  introduction  to 
your  father  and  others,  were  used  by  the  rob 
ber,  for  his  own  purposes. 

"  Be  content,  lady ;  let  no  fear  or  forebod 
ings  depress  you,  and  trust  in  me. 

"  ROBERT  STANLEY." 


"  You  may  go,  Alanda,  I  shall  not  want 
anything  at  present,"  said  lady  Gustine,  look 
ing  up  from  the  tablets. 

"  I  thought  you  just  sounded  the  gong  for 
me,  lady,"  she  answered,  a  little  surprised. 

"  Did  I  ?  O,  yes,  so  I  did,  but  it  is  no  mat 
ter  now — 1  have  changed  my  mind,"  she  re 
plied,  gently  signifying  to  the  girl  that  she 
might  go,  but  in  vain  attempting  to  conceal 
the  satisfaction  that  the  message  from  Mr. 
Stanley  gave  her. 

As  soon  as  the  entrance  was  closed,  the 
lady  again  referred  to  the  message,  and  .  read 
it  with  the  utmost  interest ;  every  word  was 
carefully  weighed  and  considered. 

"  How  generously  he  writes,"  she  said  to 
herself,  thoughtfully  ;  "  I  know  he  must  be  a 
noble  and  brave  man,  or  he  would  not  write 
thus.  He  has  never  seen  me,  and  yet  he 
pledges  himself  at  once  to  release  me." 

"  Be  content,  lady  ;  let  no  fear  or  forebod 
ings  depress  you,  and  trust  in  me,"  she  read 
half  aloud,  once  more. 

"1  will  trust  in  thee,  generous  man,  let 
what  will  come  of  it.  There  is  something  in 
these  few  lines  that  gives  me  fresh  hope, 
fresh  confidence,  that  I  shall  soon  be  restored 
again  to  my  father  and  my  home." 

A  new  spirit  came  over  the  fair  lady  Gus 
tine.  She  was  no  longer  sad  and  depressed, 
but  notwithstanding  her  singular  position,  she 
seemed  to  be  comparatively  cheerful  and  con- 


100 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


tented.  This  Karl  Blasius  marked  well,  and 
gave  it  such  an  interpretation  as  was  best 
suited  to  his  own  wishes,  for  he  did  not  for  a 
moment  suspect  that  there  had  been1  any  com 
munication  between  his  two  prisoners.  Though 
the  lady  met  him  in  his  daily  visits  to  her  cell 
with  cool  and  undisguised  displeasure,  yet  he 
appeared  to  feel  satisfied  to  think  that  she  had 
learned  to  suppress  her  grief  and  tearful 
pleading  to  be  sent  back  to  her  father.  The 
robber  was  little  used  to  judging  of  the  human 
heart,  as  evinced  in  a  woman's  breast ;  he 
understood  human  nature  as  it  worked  in  the 
bosom  of  the  sterner  sex,  and  could  read  the 
character  of  his  men  like  the  open  leav.es  of  a 
book;  but  he  did  not  understand  the  lady  Gus- 
tine,  when  in  his  blind  hope,  he  thought  that 
she  was  gradually  becoming  contented  and 
reconciled  to  fill  the  place  that  he  destined 
her  for — his  wife.  He  thought  that  matters 
had  now  assumed  such  a  shape,  that  he  might 
venture  to  release  the  Englishman,  with  some 
ordinary  precaution  as  to  putting  his  power  of 
again  finding  the  cave  at  fault,  by  having  him 
conducted  from  the  forest  by  a  path  that 
should  leave  him  in  the  river  country,  far  be 
low  Bronts. 

It  was  on  one  calm  afternoon,  some  two 
weeks  subsequent  to  the  date  of  the  lady  Gus- 
tine's  arrival  at  the  cave,  that  the  robber  chief 
entered  the  apartment  occupied  by  Mr.  Stan 
ley,  and  by  his  manner  at  once  showed  that 
he  had  come  on  an  unusual  errand.  He  was 
greeted  with  the  courtesy  that  the  English 
man  always  extended  to  him  when  they  met ; 
not  that  he  could  regard  the  robber  with  any 
frimdly  feelings,  but  because  policy  dictated 
ihit  it  was  the  best  course  for  him  to  pursue 
while  in  his  power. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Stanley,"  said  the  robber, 
throwing  himself  carelessly  into  a  vacant  seat, 
"  I  have  come,  after  acting  a  jailor  to  you  for 
so  long  a  time,  to  set  you  free  at  last,  and  to 
bid  you  go  in  peace  from  my  cave." 

"  That's  cheerful  news,"  said  the  English 
man,  "  welcome  news.  When  am  I  at  liberty 
to  go?" 

"  From  this  hour,"  replied  Karl  Blasius,  "  I 
claim  no  further  control  over  your  move 
ments.  The  good  friar  Blemen  will  guide 
you  to  the  nearest  town,  where  you  will  be 
left  in  safety  to  pursue  your  own  course." 

As   the   robber  spoke,  he  turned  from  the 


room  for  a  single  moment,  but  soon  returned 
again,  bringing  the  pack  that  belonged  to  his 
prisoner,  and  laying  it  down  by  his  side,  he 
said : 

"  I  return  you  the  contents  of  your  pack, 
all  save  the  letters.  Having  improved  them 
for  a  purpose  of  my  own,  of  course  they  are 
no  longer  in  my  possession.  Perhaps  it  will 
be  some  satisfaction  to  you  to  know  that  it 
was  they  alone  that  led  me  to  bring  you  here, 
and  had  you  not  mentioned  that  they  were 
in  your  pack  on  the  afternoon  that  we  left  the 
inn  at  Mornentz,  we  should  have  parted  that 
night." 

The  Englishman  examined  the  pack  for  a 
moment,  and  then  remarked  : 

"  There  are  still  some  articles  missing,  I 
believe,  captain  ;  rather  important  ones,  too." 

"What  do  you  refer  to?"  asked  the  rob 
ber.  "  If  my  people  have  dared — " 

"  0,  there  is  no  cause  for  crimination,"  re 
plied  the  Englishman,  half  smiling  at  the  oth 
er's  earnestness.  "  You  see  my  pistols  and 
dirk  have  been  forgotten — they  were  in  the 
pack  when  you  took  charge  of  it." 

"True,"  said  the  robber,  quickly,  "here 
are  my  own,  will  you  accept  them?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  drew  from  his  belt  a  pair 
of  superb  pistols,  inlaid  with  gold  and  silver, 
and  also  a  broad  Italian  dagger,  of  most  curi 
ous  workmanship. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Englishman,  exam 
ining  them  with  evident  interest.  "  It  is  some 
time  since  I  have  grasped  the  like ;  it  gives 
me  assurance  of  freedom !  These  are  trusty 
weapons,  captain." 

"  They  are  indeed,"  said  the  robber,  signifi 
cantly,  "  for  I  have  tried  them  in  more  than 
one  emergency." 

"Are  the  pistols  loaded  with  ball?"  asked 
the  Englishman. 

"  Yes,  I  loaded  them  myself,"  replied  the 
robber,  thrusting  in  the  ramrod  to  show  it. 

"-Good,"  said  the  Englishman,  putting  the 
weapons  into  his  bosom. 

After  packing  his  few  articles  of  necessity 
within  his  wallet,  Eobert  Stanley  went  out 
at  the  mouth  of  the  cave  with  a  sense  of  free 
dom  that  thrilled  through  every  vein,  after  the 
long  confinement  that  he  had  experienced. — 
It  was  in  the  after  part  of  the  day,  and  though, 
as  we  have  already  said,  he  had  been  permit 
ted  before  this  to  move  about  at  certain  times 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


101 


for  exercise  without  the  cave,  yet  on  seeing 
the  open  plat  at  this  moment,  with  a  sense  of 
freedom  exhilarating  him,  he  wondered  that 
he  had  not  before  marked  the  wild  and  sylvan 
beauty  of  the  spot  more  minutely ;  and  even 
the  notes  of  the  birds  seemed  to  impart  addi 
tional  melody.  As  he  passed  along  on  his 
way  from  his  own  apartment  to  the  mouth  of 
the  cave,  he  marked  well  the  secret  door, 
which  he  learned  from  Alanda  led  to  the  cell 
occupied  by  the  lady  Gustine.  He  told  the 
robber  chief  that  if  he  were  to  start  at  that 
time,  it  would  bring  him  to  the  town  at  a  late 
and  inconvenient  hour  in  the  evening,  and 
that,  with  his  permission,  he  would  defer  his 
departure  until  the  following  morning.  This 
being  agreed  upon,  it  was  understood  gener 
ally  among  the  band  that  the  Englishman  had 
already  been  liberated,  and  that  on  the  follow 
ing  morning  he  was  to  leave  the  cave  with 
the  priest,  who  was  to  act  as  his  guide,  to  the 
nearest  market  town  to  the  south. 

As  night  approached,  Robert  Stanley  walk 
ed  in  and  out  of  the  cave  unchallenged  by  the 
sentry  on  duty  at  its  entrance,  for  orders  had 
been  given  by  the  captain  to  permit  him  to 
pass  at  will.  Engaging  the  attention  of 
Alanda,  while  thus  strolling  about,  he  improv 
ed  a  moment  when  they  were  unobserved,  to 
inquire  of  the  girl,  though  with  feigned  indif 
ference,  the  manner  in  which  to  open  the  se 
cret  door  that  led  to  the  lady  Gustine's  cell. 
This  the  thoughtless  girl  told  him  at  once,  for 
if  she  had  any  scruples  as  to  doing  it,  she 
reasoned  that  he  was  going  to  leave  them 
now,  and  it  would  do  no  harm  ;  besides  which 
she  had  not  forgotten  the  promise  which  Mr. 
Stanley  had  already  renewed  to  her,  of  send 
ing  her  a  present  from  the  next  town  when  he 
should  get  there. 

Having  gained  the  information  that  he  de 
sired,  the  Englishman  adroitly  changed  the 
conversation,  and  soon  after,  leaving  Alanda, 
retired  as  he  told  her,  to  his  bed  for  the  night, 
though  in  reality  to  meditate  upon  the  subject 
of  releasing  the  fair  prisoner,  now  that  he  had 
better  surveyed  the  ground,  and  understood 
by  what  means  he  might  gain  admittance  to 
her  presence. 

Since  the  night  that  the  lady  Gustine  had 
been  brought  to  the  robber's  cave,  the  priest 
had  been  quartered  in  the  apartment  occupied 
by  the  Englishman,  and  on  this  account  Rob 


ert  Stanley  realized  no  little  fear  lest  he 
should  be  unable  to  operate  so  successfully  as 
he  might  otherwise  have  done,  in  behalf  of 
the  lady  Gustine.  However,  as  the  night  ad 
vanced,  and  it  came  at  last  to  the  usual  hour 
for  them  to  retire  to  sleep,  the  Englishman 
remembered  a  bottle  of  laudanum  in  his  pack, 
with  which  he  had  supplied  himself  to  still  a 
raging  tooth  some  weeks  before,  in  a  neighbor 
ing  city,  and  quietly  taking  this  from  its  place, 
he  proposed  to  the  priest,  as  this  was  to  be  his 
last  night  at  the  cave,  that  they  should  pledge 
each  other  in  a  cup  of  wine,  probably  the  last 
that  they  might  ever  take  together,  and  to 
which  the  companionable  friar  cheerfully  as 
sented. 

He  draped  a  portion  of  the  powerful  nar 
cotic  into  the  priest's  glass,  and  filled  it  with 
a  sufficient  quantity  of  wine  to  disguise  any 
flavor  of  the  drug  that  might  impart  itself  to 
the  liquor.  Then  filling  another,  they  drank 
to  each  other's  future  health  and  happiness, 
after  which  the  priest,  feeling  first  the  exhilar 
ating  effect  of  the  wine  warming  his  veins,  as 
well  as  the  first  stimulating  effect  of  the  sub 
tle  poison  he  had  drank,  proposed  to  the  Eng 
lishman  to  join  him  in  a  game  of  chess. — 
Robert  Stanley  hesitated  at  first,  for  this  was 
the  priest's  favorite  game,  and  whenever  in 
terested,  he  would  be  hours  in  playing  a  sin 
gle  one.  But  he  dared  not  refuse,  and  so 
making  a  virtue  of  necessity,  he  sat  down, 
fearing  that  he  had  given  too  small  a  dose  to 
the  priest  to  produce  the  narcotic  effect  he  had 
hoped  to  see  follow  the  drinking  of  the  wine, 
by  his  companion. 

But  with  his  thoughts  far  away  from  the 
game,  the  Englishman  moved  first ;  the  priest 
quickly  followed  him  ;  move  and  move,  again, 
the  priest  yawned,  studied  the  board  for  a 
moment,  yawned  again,  and  moved  on.  But 
his  companion  now  took  more  time,  as  if  to 
study  well  the  board  before  him,  and  at  the 
same  time  cautiously  stealing  a  glance  at  his 
partner,  whom  he  discovered  to  be  already 
nodding  unconsciously.  -  Suddenly  he  roused 
himself,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  applied  himself 
for  a  moment  to  the  game  again ;  but  as  he  ex 
tended  his  arm,  half  undecided  as  to  a  move, 
it  dropped  heavily  upon  the  board,  and  at  the 
same  time  his  head  sank  gently  upon  his 
breast,  he  sighed  once  or  twice,  and  was 
asleep. 


102 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


How  soundly  he  slept  under  the  influence 
of  the  potent  draught!  Robert  Stanley  al 
most  feared  that  he  had  given  him  too  much, 
and  that  the  dose  might  prove  fatal,  for  he 
could  not  arouse  him  to  consciousness,  even 
sufficient  to  cause  him  to  undress  and  retire. 
At  last  finding  this  to  be  the  case,  he  took 
him  in  his  arms  and 'carried  him  to  his  bed, 
where  he  laid  him  in  a  comfortable  position. 
He  listened  for  a  moment,  with  a  nervous 
trepidation  of  feeling  to  the  short,  still  breath 
ing  that  the  medicine  induced,  but  in  a  few 
moments  left  the  bed-side,  and  as  it  had  now 
come  to  be  a  quiet  hour,  he  resolved  to  at 
tempt  to  make  an  entrance  into  the  lady  Gus- 
tine's  apartment. 

Looking  at  his  watch,  he  found  that  it  was 
already  midnight,  and,  save  the  half  suppress 
ed  song  and  jest  of  a  party  of  the  band  in  a 
distant  part  of  the  cave,  and  the  occasional 
movement  of  the  sentinel,  who  held  the  watch 
at  the  cavern's  mouth,  all  was  still  and  quiet. 
Casting  aside  his  shoes,  the  Englishman  stole 
out  into  the  open  division  of  the  cave,  and  on 
his  hands  and  knees  crept  in  the  deep  shadow 
of  an  angle  of  the  rocks  as  far  as  he  could  in  the 
direction  that  he  wished  to  pursue,  then  rising 
boldly,  but  silently,  he  quickly  crossed  the 
spot  that  came  under  the  eye  of  the  sentinel, 
when  he  looked  inward  upon  the  cave  ;  chance 
favored  him,  he  was  unobserved,  and  sinking 
once  more  upon  his  hands  and  knees,  he  crept 
silently  on  to  the  spot  where  the  door  opened 
into  the  lady's  prison.  For  a  moment  he 
paused  to  realize  the  awkwardness  of  his  situ 
ation,  in  making  his  first  visit  at  such  an 
hour,  but  he  knew  very  well  that  there  was 
no  time  to  be  lost,  and  hesitating  no  longer, 
prepared  to  open  the  door  and  enter  silently. 

The  secret  entrance,  so  cut  from  within,  but 
quite  visible  from  without,  was  shaded  in  such 
a  way  that,  being  reached,  he  became  partially 
screened  from  observation,  and  finding  himself 
thus  situated,  he  touched  the  spring,  and  the 
door  gave  way  to  his  hand  while  he  silently 
stepped  within,  taking  care  as  he  closed  the 
door  after  him,  to  place  his  glove  cautiously 
inside  the  spring,  to  prevent  it  from  becoming 
rpuite  fast,  and  thus  enable  him  to  open  it 
without  the  key  from  within.  The  lady  had 
started  to  her  feet  on  the  instant  that  he  had 
opened  the  door,  but  as  she  saw  him  enter 
and  take  the  precautions  we  have  named  as  it 


regarded  the  secret  spring,  she  seemed  at 
once  to  know  whom  he  must  be,  and  his  ob 
ject  in  visiting  her  at  such  a  singular  hour  and 
in  this  stealthy  manner. 

"  Lady,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  as  soon  as 
he  could  turn  from  the  door,  "this  is  no  time 
for  ceremony,  and  fortunately  we  already  un 
derstand  each  other.  Permit  me  to  remove 
this  lamp,  so  that  its  light  will  not  strike 
through  the  crack  that  I  have  left  open  in  the 
door  ;  it  might  catch  the  sentinel's  eye,  or  that 
of  some  person  in  the  cave." 

"O,  sir,  do  you  think  there  is  any  possibil 
ity  of  my  escaping  from  this  place  ?" 

"  If  we  are  only  discreet,  I  am  sure  it  can 
be  done,  and  that  too  almost  at  once." 

"  Heaven  bless  you  for  saying  so,"  replied 
the  lady  Gustine,  suppressing  her  tears. 

"  In  the  first  place,  then,  I  am  to  leave  the 
cave  early  on  the  coming  morning."  • 

"  So  soon !" 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  must  leave  also,  lady,  for 
I  shall  not  go  without  you." 

"  How  can  this  be  done  ?  I  saw  sentinels  at 
the  door  of  the  cave  when  I  looked  out  yester 
day." 

"  It  will  be  necessary,  of  course,  lady  Gus 
tine,  that  you  should  be  disguised.  The  priest 
who  occupied  this  cell  before  you,  was  to  be 
my  guide  from  the  woods,  to-morrow;  you  must 
take  his  place,  and  personate  his  character.  I 
will  presently  bring  you  sufficient  of  his  gar 
ments  to  form  a  complete  disguise  for  your  per 
son." 

"  The  means  to  do  that  are  here  already,"  re 
plied  the  lady,  pointing  to  the  garments  which 
have  been  referred  to.  It  is  queer  that  only  a 
few  hours  since  I  was  looking  at  them  with 
some  such  idea  vaguely  flitting  through  my 
brain." 

"  This  is  very  good,"  said  the  Englishman, 
carefully  examining  the  garments.  "  Fortune 
surely  favors  us ;  here  is  a  cowl,  body  gown, 
sandals,  staff,  everything  that  is  necessary  for 
our  purpose." 

"  But  will  not  the  priest  himself  appear,  to 
confront  and  expose  us  ?"  asked  the  lady. 

"  I  have  taken  good  care  to  prevent  that," 
replied  the  Englishman;  "his  wine  to-night 
was  heavily  drugged  with  laudanum,  and  he 
will  be  sure  to  sleep  until  high  noon  to-mor 
row.  A  pistol  fired  by  his  very  ear  would  not 
awake  him." 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


103 


"  You  have  been  very  thoughtful." 

"  It  rests  with  us  to  make  our  escape  by  the 
exercise  of  the  utmost  caution  and  self-posses 
sion." 

"  But  do  you  know  the  path  that  leads  out 
of  the  forest  ?"  asked  the  lady  Gustine. 

"  Not  I,  lady,  and  therein  lies  our  safety  in 
a  great  degree,  as  we  must  find  a  way  of  our 
own,  in  doing  which,  if  your  escape  is  discov 
ered,  and  we  are  pursued,  we  shall  be  com 
pletely  hidden  from  the  band,  whereas  they 
might  easily  overtake  and  recapture  us  if  we 
were  to  take  the  beaten  route  that  leads  to  the 
highway ;  we  must  seem  to  take  it  though, 
but  as  soon  as  we  are  out  of.  sight  from  the 
cave,  we  must  dash  boldly  into  the  forest,  thus 
leaving  them  at  fault  as  to  the  spot  where  they 
may  find  us.  The  shady  depths  of  the  road 
are  our  only  hope  for  safety." 

"  I  see  you  are  very  provident  and  careful. 
0,  I  would  suffer  almost  any  hardship,  if  I 
thought  it  was  only  taking  me  from  here  and 
towards  my  home.  I  shall  trust  all  to  you, 
Mr.  Stanley." 

"  I  am  glad  you  feel  thus,  for  there  will  be 
much  fatigue  for  you  to  endure,  even  under 
the  most  favorable  circumstances,  and  I  fear 
that  gentle  form  of  thine,  lady,  will  be  sadly 
wearied  by  fatigue." 

"  Nay,  Mr.  Stanley,"  continued  the  lady, 
cheerfully  smiling  upon  him,  "  my  spirits  will 
sustain  me  against  much  hardship,  you  may 
rely  ;  besides,  I  am  used  to  much  exercise." 

"  On  horseback,  lady,  doubtless,"  said  her 
companion,  "  but  we  must  struggle  on  foot  to 
morrow.  Take  all  the  rest  that  you  can  to 
night,  so  that  you  may  be  well  refreshed  in 
the  morning,  for  with  the  earliest  light  I  shall 
seek  your  door,  when  you  may  join  me  as  the 


priest,  and  we  will  walk  boldly  out  as  though 
there  were  no  secret  or  cause  for  fear  of  any 
kind." 

"  Good  night,  kind  sir,  I  understand  your 
plan  fully,"  said  the  lady  Gustine,  offeringher 
hand  to  him,  which  the  Englishman  pressed 
respectfully,  and  then  bowing  low,  he  with 
drew  as  silently  as  he  had  come. 

The  Englishman  easily  reached  his  own 
apartment  as  he  had  come,  unobserved,  and 
once  more  approaching  the  bedside  of  the 
priest,  he  listened  carefully  to  his  breathing, 
almost  shuddering  as  he  did  so,  to  witness  the 
strong  resemblance  that  there  was  presented 
in  his  present,  state,  to  death  itself.  The  dose 
that  Robert  Stanley  had  administered  in  the 
wine  was  a  potent  one,  perhaps  fully  as  much 
as  could  have  been  given  to  a  healthy  person 
with  safety.  So  completely  was  the  priest  un 
der  its  influence  now,  that  it  had  almost  still 
ed  the  action  of  the  lungs  altogether,  and  the 
Englishman  twice  placed  the  flame  of  his 
lamp  to  the  sleeper's  very  lips,  in  order  to  make 
sure  that,  he  breathed  at  all.  Satisfied  of  this, 
and  also  feeling  carefully  of  the  priest's  pulse, 
he  prepared  himself  for  a  few  moments'  sleep. 

But  it  was  long  before  Robert  Stanley  could 
close  his  eyes  in  forgetfulness.  The  lady  Gus 
tine  was  constantly  before  him  like  a  vision. 
He  thought  her  extremely  lovely,  but  that  was 
not  all.  The  romantic  situation  in  which 
he  found  himself  placed  relating  to  her,  was 
enough  in  itself  to  rouse  a  flood  of  interest  in 
his  breast,  realizing  as  he  did  that  she  was 
solely  dependent  upon  him  for  assistance  in  re 
gaining  her  liberty.  Musing  upon  these 
things  in  a  half  wakeful  state  he  at  last  fell 
asleep,  to  dream  them  all  over  with  increased 
vividness  again  and  again  until  the  morning. 


CHAPTER     XIX. 


THE   STRUGGLE   IN   THE   FOREST. 


Dead,  for  a.  ducat,  dead ! 


HAMLET. 


WITH  the  first  light  of  the  morning  the  En 
glishman  was  stirring  and  arranging  his 
dress  for  a  long  and  tedious  flight.  He  filled 
his  canteen  with  wine  from  the  bottle  that  had 
been  broached  on  the  previous  evening, thrust 
ing  also  the  remnants  of  his  last  night's  sup 
per  within  his  wallet,  and  carefully  depositing 
his  weapon  in  the  most  convenient  manner 
about  his  person,  he  once  more  stole  gently  to 
the  bedside  of  the  sleeping  friar.  His  breath 
was  still  short  and  faint,  but  the  Englishman 
after  feeling  his  pulse,  was  satisfied  that  his 
system  would,  ere  the  expiration  of  many 
hours,  throw  off  the  effects  of  the  powerful 
drug.  Confident  of  this,  Robert  Stanley  left 
him  with  a  light  heart.  Again  exercising  the 
utmost  caution,  he  reached  the  cell  in  which 
the  lady  Gustine  was  confined,  and  found  her, 
like  himself,  fully  equipped  and  prepared  to 
make  a  bold  effort  to  regain  her  liberty. 

"  Are  you  quite  ready,  lady  Gustine  ?"  whis 
pered  the  Englishman,  as  he  entered. 

"  O,  yes,  this  hour  past ;  pray  let  us  start 
at  once ;  this  suspense  is  too  trying." 

"  The  sooner  the  better  for  our  purpose,  la 
dy,"  replied  her  companion. 

"  Stay,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  had  nearly  forgot 


ten  one  thing."  As  she  spoke  she  returned  to 
her  couch  of  skins,  and  taking  from  thence 
the  dagger  that  she  had  found  in  the  cell, 
placed  it  beneath  her  inner  girdle  and  said,  "  I 
am  ready  now." 

"  Come  then,  lady,  and  remember  that  you 
are  Blemen,  the  priest,  and  be  cautious." 

They  stepped  out  into  the  open  cave  togeth 
er,  the  lady  Gustine  fully  equipped  as  the 
priest,  and  the  Englishman  talking  to  her  as 
such,  while  the  two  walked  quietly  past  the 
drowsy  sentinel.  The  guard  had  learned,  in 
common  with  the  rest  of  the  band,  that  the 
friar  and  the  Englishman  were  to  leave  in  the 
morning  together,  and  therefore  he  asked  no 
question  of  them  as  they  passed  by,  but  sunk 
his  head  again  upon  his  carbine,  and  dozed 
thoughtlessly  on  ! 

To  Gustine,  Mr.  Stanley  seemed  to  walk 
needlessly  slow,  as  they  moved  across  the  open 
space  or  plat  of  ground,  and  turned  their  steps 
towards  the  main  path  to  the  high  road.  The 
time  occupied  by  them  in  passing  from  the 
cave  to  the  path  where  it  turned  through 
the  wood,  seemed  to  her  to  be  an  age,  and  in 
her  impatience,  she  passed  some  steps  in  ad- 
v.ince  of  her  companion.  But  it  was  not  long 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


105 


before  she  realized  the  policy  that  dictated 
this,  for  as  soon  as  a  slight  curve  in  the  path 
shut  them  out  of  sight  from  the  cave's  mouth, 
the  Englishman  drew  her  arm  nervously  with 
in  his  own,  and  after  turning  to  one  side,  and 
gazing  about  him  for  a  moment  as  if  to  fix  the 
direction  in  his  mind, he  plunged  at  once  in 
to  the  depth  of  the  forest,  with  a  spirit  and 
rigor  that  soon  put  his  companion's  impatience 
at  rest,  and  satisfied  her  of  his  earnestness'. — 
Lady  Gustine  showed  far  more  physical 
strength  than  he  had  anticipated  ;  indeed  she 
had  been  brought  up  to  much  out-door  exer 
cise  and  her  bodily  strength  was  proportion- 
ably  improved.  On  they  pressed,  Robert  Stan 
ley  going  before,  and  the  lady  following  close 
upon  his  footsteps  along  the  passage  that  he 
was  oftentimes  obliged  to  make  by  the  exer 
cise  of  main  strength,  to  force  open  the  thick 
and  stout  undergrowth  that  often  beset  the 

path. 

They  might  have  travelled  thus  for  an  hour 
or  so  most  diligently,  scarcely  exchanging  a 
word  with  each  other,  so  earnest  were  they, 
when  suddenly  the  Englishman  stopped  in  a 
listening  attitude  for  a  moment,  but  seemingly 
convinced  that  his  imagination  had  deceived 
him ;  he  intimated  as  much  to  his  companion, 
and  was  just  preparing  to  move  on  again,  when 
he  paused  a  second  time. 

"  Hark !"  said  he,  with  his  hands  to  his 
ears  so  as  to  catch  the  sound  from  the  light 
breeze,  "  that  was  a  bugle  note,  and  one  to 
sound  an  alarm  too  !  Lady,  our  escape  is  al 
ready  discovered,  but  we  have  a  fair  start  of 
them  nevertheless,  and  need  hardly  fear  being 
overtaken.  There  is  the  bugle  note  again  ; 
how  clear  and  distinct  it  sounds,  and  how  mer 
rily  it  rings  out  upon  this  morning  air  !" 

"  Alas  !  they  will  be  sure  to  overtake  us — 
don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Stanley  ?" 

"Not  I,  lady;  it  would  puzzle  a  blood 
hound  to  follow  the  track  we  have  made 
through  the  woods." 

"  But  these  people  know  the  woods  well," 
replied  the  lady,  anxiously. 

"  Its  beaten  paths,  lady,  doubtless  they  do ; 
but  we  have  left  those  far  behind." 

Their  surmise  was  correct  ;  the  escape  of 
the  lady  Gustine  was  indeed  discovered,  and 
gradually  the  sounds  of  pursuit  drew  nearer 
and  nearer  to  them,  until  in  a  couple  of  hours 
the  wood  all  about  them  resounded  with  the 


signals  that  Robert  Stanley  had  learned  partial 
ly  to  understand.  He  recognized  those  unearth 
ly  sounds  and  cries  that  had  besieged  his  lone 
way  on  the  night  that  the  robber  had  led  him 
through  the  forest  to  his  cave.  Now  and  then 
improving  an  opportunity  afforded  by  some 
opening  in  the  trees,  the  Englishman  would 
pause  for  a  moment  to  get  the  bearing  of  the 
sun,  and  thus  assured,  he  pressed  in  the 
same  course  that  he  had  calculated  when  he 
first  left  the  main  path  would  at  least  bring 
him  out  upon  the  river  and  near  to  the  city  of 
Bronts  itself. 

And  now  Robert  Stanley  found  that  his  ut 
most  eloquence  and  judgment  had  become 
necessary  in  order  to  encourage  and  sustain 
his  already  nearly  exhausted  companion,  for 
within  the  last  half  hour  the  robbers'  signal 
had  grown  nearer  and  nearer  to  them  ;  their 
pursuers  seemed  to  realize  the  route  that 
the  fugitives  would  naturally  take,  at  least  so 
far  as  it  regarded  direction ;  but  the  trouble 
was,  to  find  them  even  when  this  was  under 
stood,  so  dense  were  the  woods,  and  so  un 
beaten  the  path.  Suddenly  they  were  start 
led  by  an  echo  so  nearly  in  the  very  way  be 
fore  them,  that  the  Englishman  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  lady  Gustine's  arm  and  drew  her 
quickly  back,  while  both  now  crouched  as  low 
as  possible  in  a  friendly  thicket,  more  dense 
and  impenetrable  than  those  about  it. 

"  That  signal  was  very  near  us,"  whispered 
the  lady,  with  a  blanched  cheek. 

"  It  was,  but  do  not  fear;  the  man  is  alone, 
and  I  am  his  match  if  necessary." 

"  Hark  !"  said  the  lady,  still  trembling  as 
she  heard  the  approach  of  some  one. 

"  They  have  followed  out  the  path  to  the 
highway  on  their  horses,  and  finding  that  we 
are  not  there,  they  suspect  the  game  we  have 
really  played  them,  and  now  they  are  beating 
the  woods  in  the  direction  of  Bronts,''  said  the 
Englishman. 

"  Heaven  protect  us,"  said  the  lady  Gus 
tine,  at  this  moment,  in  a  whisper,  as  they  ob 
served  the  sentinel  whom  they  had  passed 
early  that  morning  at  the  cave,  now  passing 
along  among  the  bushes  and  the  underwood 
close  by  their  very  sides.  What  a  fearful 
moment  was  that,  and  how  the  heart  of  either 
throbbed  within  their  breasts  at  this  critical 
moment. 

Stanley  instinctively  drew  a  pistol  from  his 


106 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


belt,  but  upon  second  thought  he  checked 
himself,  for  though  he  might  with  the  utmost 
ease  have  selected  his  aim  and  put  a  ball 
through  the  robber's  heart,  the  report  of  the 
pistol  would  serve  as  a  signal  for  the  entire 
pursuing  party,  who  would  thus  be  led  at  once 
upon  them.  Thus  reasoning,  the  English 
man  returned  the  weapon  to  its  place,  but  kept 
his  eye  cautiously  bent  upon  the  person  of 
their  pursuer,  who  still  carried  on  his  search 
most  industriously. 

The  lady  Gustine  made  a  slight  involunta 
ry  movement,  when  a  dry  twig  broke  beneath 
her  feet.  Nothing  could  have  been  done 
more  unfortunate  at  that  time;  they  were  be 
trayed,  and  the  robber's  eyes  were  upon  them 
both  in  an  instant ! 

There  was  no  time  for  parley  now  ;  one 
single  moment  of  delay  might  prove  fatal ; 
not  a  second  of  time  must  be  lost.  Already 
was  the  robber's  signal  to  his  lips,  while  he 
drew  a  pistol  with  his  other  hand.  If  that  sig 
nal  was  given  all  was  lost.  It  was  a  matter  of 
life  and  death  with  the  Englishman  and  his 
fair  companion,  and,  like  a  panther  leaping 
upon  his  prey,  with  one  bound  Stanley  was  at 
the  robber's  side,  one  hand  clasping  his  throat 
with  the  grasp  of  a  Hercules,  and  with  the 
other  he  planted  his  dagger  deep  within  his 
enemy's  heart.  It  was  a  blow  so  keen  and 
fatal  that  the  wounded  man  fell  without  a 
struggle,  and  uttering  one  deep  sigh  and  groan, 
he  was  dead  !  even  while  the  fierce  grip  of  the 
Englishman  was  still  upon  his  throat  ! 

Robert  Stanley  unloosed  his  grasp  and 
gazed,  with  a  heaving  breast,  upon  the  deed 
he  had  done.  He  had  known  the  man  for 
some  weeks  past  as  a  boon  companion,  and 
had  listened  to  his  stories,  had  drunk  wine 
with  him  at  the  cave,  and  interchanged  a  jo 
vial  song  now  and  then,  little  thinking  at  the 
time  that  their  rude  acquaintance  would  close 
thus  in  a  deadly  struggle.  "  It  could  not  be 
helped,"  said  he  to  himself,"  our  own  safety 
and  perhaps  my  life  depended  upon  the  deed. 
God  forgive  me,"  continued  he,  as  he  composed 
the  limbs  of  the  body  and  drew  it  one  side  into 
the  leaves  and  thick  bushes,  before  he  should 
leave  it  there  alone  to  feed  the  wolves  that 
infest  the  forest. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?"  asked  the  lady,  uncovering 
her  hands  from  her  face,  as  the  Englishman 
returned  to  her  side  once  more. 


"  He  is,"  replied  her  companion,  with  a 
compressed  lip,  for  it  was  no  congenial  busi 
ness  that  he  had  performed. 

"  O,  this  is  very  fearful,"  sighed  lady  Gus 
tine — "  what  will  be  the  end  of  it  all  ?" 

"  We  must  press  on,  lady  Gustine,  and 
hope  for  the  best.  Do  you  feel  able  to  make 
the  effort  ?"  said  the  Englishman,  as  he  gath 
ered  a  handful  of  dry  leaves  and  wiped  the 
tell-tale  blood  from  his  dagger. 

"  I  will  try,  Mr.  Stanley,  and  do  the  best 
that  I  can,  but  I  am  very,  very  sick." 

After  returning  once  more  to  the  body  of 
the  man  he  had  slain,  and  having  fully  satis 
fied  himself  that  all  life  was  extinct  in  his 
veins,  he  raised  the  trembling  and  nearly 
fainting  Gustine  to  her  feet,  and  led  her  on 
again  towards  the  east,  feeling  confident  that 
every  step  they  passed  brought  them  still  near 
er  to  Bronts.  But  it  was  a  long  journey  yet 
for  such  weary  limbs  to  perform. 

The  signals  of  the  pursuing  party  had 
grown  gradually  fainter  and  less  frequent  as 
the  two  advanced,  until  at  last  it  became  evi 
dent  to  them  that  they  were  not  sought  in  the 
direction  which  they  were  pursuing  ;  this  was 
very  satisfactory,  but  they  needed  every  pos 
sible  encouragement,  for  lady  Gustine  had 
now  become  so  fatigued  that  she  could  ad 
vance  but  with  the  utmost  difficulty,  and  by 
being  almost  entirely  supported  by  her  com 
panion,  who  still  cheered  her  on  with  a  prom 
ise  that  they  would  soon  reach  Bronts. 

The  noon  was  already  past,  and  the  night 
was  coming  on  apace,  when  the  Englishman 
became  convinced  that  lady  Gustine  could  go 
no  further  until  she  had  been  revived  by  sleep. 
He  dreaded  fof  her  sake  to  pass  the  night  in 
the  forest,  where  under  the  most  propitious  cir 
cumstances  she  would  suffer  great  exposure, 
but  he  saw  that  this  would  doubtless  be  neces 
sary,  and  he  therefore  prepared  her  mind  for 
the  purpose.  Far  too  much  exhausted  to  ar 
gue  against  the  plan  of  bivouacking  among 
the  trees,  even  had  she  felt  any  disinclination 
to  do  so,  the  lady  quietly  acquiesced  in  his 
suggestions  and  efforts  for  her  comfort. 

It  required  but  a  short  time  for  him  to  col 
lect  a  bed  of  dried  leaves  and  mosses,  and 
upon  these  he  gently  laid  the  exhausted  per 
son  of  his  companion,  at  the  same  time  pre 
vailing  upon  her  to  partake,  though  sparingly, 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


107 


of  the  remnants  of  the  provisions  that  remain 
ed  in  his  pack,  and  also  to  drink  a  little  wine. 
The  latter  was  of  a  choice  kind  and  had  the 
effect  to  revive  and  strengthen  her  not  a  little. 
Driving  four  upright  stakes  into  the  ground, 
the  Englishman  formed  a  rude  cabin,  covered 
over  with  boughs  and  twigs,  and  building  the 
like  substances  against  the  sides,  leaving  only 
the  front  open,  he  formed  a  close  shelter  that 
would  shut  out  the  dew  and  the  gusts  of  the 
cool  night  air.  Having  completed  this  se 
cure  though  temporary  shelter,  he  prevailed 
upon  the  lady  to  take  another  draught  of  wine 
as  the  night  gradually  clothed  the  wood  in  dark- 
ness/and  seating  himself  at  the  entrance  of 
the  little  rude  cabin  he  had  formed  for  her  pro 
tection,  he  bade  her  sleep  in  peace,  for  that  no 
harm  would  now  come  to  her  in  any  shape. 

Not  even  her  fear  and  anxiety  could  keep 
the  lady  Gustine  awake.  The  lassitude  and 
over  fatigue  of  her  frame  overcame  all  else, 
and  she  dropped  to  sleep  as  soundly,  ay, 
more  so  perhaps,  than  she  had  ever  done  be 
fore. 

Fearing  the  approach  of  wolves,  which 
might  have  tracked  them  to  the  spot,  the  En 
glishman  prepared  his  weapons  ready  to  his 
hands,  and  resolved  to  keep  awake  to  protect 
his  fair  charge  from  any  danger  that  might  oc 
cur,  and  he  did  so  for  hours,  listening  to  her 
deep,  regular  breathing,  and  watching  by  the 
dim  light  of  the  stars  the  strange,  wild  figures 
that  the  branches  of  the  trees  formed  them 
selves  into,  as  seen  against  the  blue  sky  above. 
Thus  he  mused  alone  by  himself,  until  at  last 
his  eyes  blurred  with  fatigue,  and  he  closed 
them  now  and  then  for  a  moment,  justto  ease 
them,  and  every  time  he  did  so  it  became  hard 
er  and  harder  for  him  to  open  them  again,  un 
til  finally  he  forgot  to  make  the  effort,  and  his 
head  rested  against  the  stakes  he  had  raised, 
and  he  slept. 

Was  he  dreaming  or  what  made  him  start 

so  ? 

"  Hark ! — is  that  the  angry  howl 

Of  the  wolf,  the  hills  among? 
Or  the  hooting  of  the  owl, 

On  his  leafy  cradle  swung  !" 

It  was  past  midnight,  some  rustling  noise  and 
a  low  growl  sounded  clear  to  his  ears.  Though 
half  asleep  he  grasped  a  pistol  and  cocking  it, 
peered  through  the  darkness.  Before  him, 
within  ten  feet  of  his  person,  he  discovered  a 


pair  of  fiery  eye-balls  glaring  upon  him. — 
Waking  so  from  a  sound  sleep,  he  hardly 
knew  at  first  what  to  think,  and  it  was  almost 
a  minute  before  he  could  recall  the  circum 
stances  of  his  present  situation.  But  there 
still  glared  those  eye-balls  upon  him,  and  he 
almost  fancied  that  he  felt  the  hot  breath  of 
the  creature  upon  his  face — a  few  moments 
sufficed  to  convince  him  that  it  was  a  huge 
wolf.  Should  he  fire  at  it  ?  Were  there  not 
more  of  them,  and  if  so,  the  killing  of  one 
might  bring  the  whole  pack  upon  him.  He 
knew  not  what  to  do,  but  soon  the  stealthy 
creature  crept  nearer,  the  inclination  was  ir 
resistible.  He  aimed  between  those  glaring 
eye-balls  and  awaiting  until  the  wolf  had  les 
sened  the  first  named  distance  one  half,  he 
fired ;  a  hoarse  growl  followed,  and  the  crea 
ture  rolled  over  lifeless  among  the  dead  twigs 
and  dried  leaves  of  the  forest.  A  few  mo 
ments'  pause  showed  the  Englishman  that  the 
wolf  was  alone,  a  stray  animal  from  the  pack 
now  most  likely  feeding  upon  the  robber's 
body  which  they  had  left  behind. 

The  excitement  caused  by  this  encounter, 
and  the  reloading  of  his  pistol,  served  to 
thoroughly  awake  him,  though  the  report  did 
not  produce  a  like  effect  upon  the  lady,  who 
was  too  much  overcome  by  fatigue  to  wake 
lightly.  Once  more  he  took  his  station  before 
the  entrance  to  the  rude  cabin,  resolved  this 
time  to  keep  awake  ;  but  nature  again  assert 
ed  her  power,  and  the  tired  fugitive  slept. 

What  a  sweet  blessing  is  sleep !  How  si 
lently  and  yet  how  surely  it  produces  its  ef 
fect,  refreshing  the  body  and  the  mind!  How 
substantially  it  invigorates  the  system,  renew 
ing  the  faculties  for  fresh  exertion  and  achieve 
ment  ;  how  necessary  and  acceptable  a  dispen 
sation  of  Providence  is  this  refreshing  insen 
sibility.  The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  on 
the  following  morning,  when  Robert  Stanley 
awoke.  Already  had  his  fair  charge  been 
some  time  stirring,  and  having  arranged  her 
dress  and  bathed  her  hands  and  face  in  a  clear 
rivulet  that  threaded  the  forest  hard  by,  she 
had  come  and  sat  down  near  to  his  side  to 
await  the  moment  of  his  waking.  She  would 
not  disturb  him,  for  she  knew  that  he  must 
have  watched  over  her  safety  for  the  better 
part  of  the  night — how  faithfully,  the  dead 
carcass  of  the  wolf  told  most  vividly. 

"  Why,  lady  Gustine,  are  you  already  up 


108 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


and  waiting  for  me  ?"  he  asked,  starting  up 
and  rubbing  his  eyes  in  surprise,  to  think  he 
had  slept  so  long.  "  I  am  but  a  sorry  sentinel, 
for  in  spite  of  all  my  resolves,  I  dropped  away 
at  last ;  but  really  I  am  much  refreshed  by  my 
slumber." 

"Indeed,  you  must  have  sorely  needed 
sleep,  for  your  task  has  been  a  doubly  tedious 
one,  and  I  rejoice  that  you  have  had  even  a 
partial  opportunity  to  resuscitate  your  strength. 
But  I  see,"  she  continued,  pointing  to  the 
body  of  the  wolf,  "  that  you  were  not  unem 
ployed  even  while  I  was  sleeping,  Mr.  Stan 
ley." 

"  It  was  only  a  cowardly  wolf  that  had 
followed  our  track.  A  single  shot  sufficed  to 
lay  him  there  as  you  see." 

"  A  most  fortunate  shot,  too,  Mr.  Stanley, 
for  they  are  considered  very  dangerous  in 
these  woods  at  night." 

"  But  how  fare  you,  lady,  after  your  ex 
treme  fatigue  and  last  night's  exposure  ?" 

"  Much  better  than  I  could  believe.  I  feel 
this  morning  as  though  I  could  walk  a 
league." 

"  Heaven  be  praised,  for  unless  we  can  get 
to  the  river  ere  long,  we  may  starve  in  the 
forest.  Half  the  distance  you  name,  I  should 
think,  would  bring  us  to  Bronts,"  replied  her 
companion. 

They  shared  the  last  biscuit  together,  and 
the  small  bit  of  dried  meat  that  was  left  in 
the  wallet.  It  had  been  carefully  saved  from 
the  little  left  for  the  supper  on  the  previous 
evening,  and  the  lady,  spite  of  her  fatigue 
and  the  anxiety  that  still  beset  her  mind, 
thought  she  had  never  tasted  a  sweeter  mor 
sel  in  her  life.  Hunger  is  a  rich  sauce. 
Having  thus  slightly  satiated  their  appetites, 
they  once  more  renewed  their  steps  towards 
the  east.  The  Englishman  had  judged  well, 
for  although  they  moved  very  slowly,  partly 
from  the  uncertainty  of  the  path,  and  partly 
from  the  soreness  and  lameness  that  half  be 
numbed  their  limbs,  yet  before  noon,  they 
began  to  discover  evidences  that  showed  them 
they  were  near  the  river  and  the  habitations  of 
the  peasantry.  Though  lady  Gustine's  feet 
were  sadly  swollen,  and  her  limbs  almost  too 
weak  to  support  her,  yet  the  cheering  prospect 
of  once  more  reaching  her  home  in  safety, 
bore  her  up,  and  she  seemed  to  lean  even  less 
heavily  as  they  advanced,  on  the  arm  that 


had  aided  her  so  constantly,  and  to  heed  her 
pains  not  at  all. 

"  Stop  here  for  a  moment,"  said  her  com 
panion,  ascending  a  little  rise  of  ground  on 
the  side  of  their  path. 

"  What  see  you  ?"  she  asked,  anxiously ; 
"  aught  that  betokens  hope  to  us  ?" 

"  I  think  so,  lady ;  we  must  be  near  the 
town,  or  else  my  eyes  deceive  me." 

"  God  grant  it/'  said  lady  Gustine,  faintly, 
as  her  companion  helped  her  to  ascend  the 
little  hillock. 

"Good  cheer,  lady,"  said  Robert  Stanley, 
again.  "  I  see  yonder  the  turrets  of  a  castle 
upon  the  cliff." 

"  Thank  heaven,  thank  heaven,"  she  replied, 
"  it  is  the  castle  of  Ghertstein." 

"  Lady,  rouse  thee,"  said  her  companion, 
striving  to  recall  her  fainting  consciousness. 

But  her  powers  of  endurance,  her  resolu 
tion  and  spirits  had  been  tried  to  the  utmost 
tension,  and  now  within  sight  of  her  very 
home  they  relaxed,  and  the  lady  Gustine 
fainted  in  the  arms  of  her  companion.  We 
have  already  described  the  Englishman  as  be 
ing  very  strong,  and  now  incited  by  their  near 
approach  to  assistance  and  safety,  he  lifted 
her  in  his  arms  and  bore  her  forward  for  a  con 
siderable  distance,  until  he  arrived  at  a  hum 
ble  cottage  near  the  river's  bank,  where  he  re 
signed  his  charge  to  the  care  of  a  couple  of 
her  own  sex,  and  sank  for  a  moment,  himself 
almost  exhausted  upon  a  seat. 

"  Holy  Mother !"  exclaimed  one  of  the 
peasants,  in  wonder,  "  it  is  our  lady  Gustine, 
who  has  been  lost,  and  for  whom  the  lord,  her 
father,  has  mourned  so  ,  bitterly.  O,  sir, 
whence  comes  she  in  this  sad  condition  ?'' 

"  No  matter  about  that  now,"  replied  the 
Englishman,  "give  heed  to  her  present  state. 
Bring  water  and  loosen  her  dress." 

"  That  we  will,  and  at  once,"  replied  the 
willing,  but  simple  people  of  the  cottage. 

The  ordinary  restoratives  soon  restored  the 
consciousness  of  the  lady  Gustine,  and  some 
warm  and  simple  nutriment  revived  her  nearly 
exhausted  physical  powers,  while  a  message 
which  was  at  once  despatched  to  the  castle, 
brought  almost  immediately  her  father  to  her 
side,  to  embrace  and  weep  over  the  child  he  had 
feared  was  lost  to  him  forever.  A  word  suf 
ficed  to  explain  all  that  was  requisite  on  the 
moment,  and  within  the  hour  the  lady  was 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


109 


conveyed  upon  a  litter  to  the  repose  and  com 
fort  of  her  own  chamber  in  the  castle,  the 
father  insisting  upon  the  presence  of  her 
deliverer. 

Lady  Gustine  had  suffered  so  severely  both 
in  body  and  in  mind,  that  her  powers  were 
completely  prostrate,  and  it  was  only  by  the 
kindest  and  most  judicious  nursing  that  a  rag 
ing  fever  was  averted,  as  the  result  of  her 
exposure  and  suffering. 

Robert  Stanley  had  no  difficulty  in  establish 
ing  himself  and  his  identity,  though  he  had 
been,  as  we  have  seen,  so  cunningly  forestall 
ed  by  the  robber  chief.  The  lord  of  Ghert- 
stein  would  permit  him  to  make  no  place  but 
the  castle  his  home,  and  seemed  to  exhaust 
invention  that  he  might  do  him  honor,  and 
render  him  contented  and  comfortable,  in  part 
payment  for  the  invaluable  service  he  had 
rendered  to  his  child.  The  sharing  of  such 
strange  and  wild  vicissitudes  together  had 
done  more  to  unite  the  feelings  of  Gustine 
and  Robert  Stanley,  than  months  of  ordinary 
intercourse  could  possibly  have  done.  Within 
his  own  heart  the  Englishman  realized  that 
he  loved  the  lady  devotedly,  and  his  stay  at 
the  castle  was  therefore  a  most  agreeable 
pleasure  to  him. 

There  is  no  condition  in  which  a  beautiful 
woman  looks  more  interesting  than  when  she 
is  recovering  from  sickness,  and  she  appears 
with  a  pale  cheek  and  languid  air  for  the  first 
time  since  her  indisposition,  in  the  drawing 
room.  The  tender  solicitude  that  is  naturally 
indulged  in  by  the  heart  and  tongue,  heightens 
the  interest,  and  the  loved  one  is  doubly  dear 
to  all.  It  was  at  such  a  time  as  this  that 
Robert  Stanley  met  the  lady  Gustine  on  the 
day  that  she  first  came  from  the  close  confine 
ment  of  her  chamber,  and  as  her  pale  cheek 
flushed  at  the  meeting,  she  gave  him  her 
hand,  which  he  pressed  respectfully,  but  ten 
derly  to  his  lips,  reading  as  he  did  so,  the  kind 
est  and  gentlest  thoughts  beaming  from  those 
fair  blue  eyes  upon  him.  Words  were  but 
feeble  to  express  their  feelings  at  such  a  mo 
ment,  and  leading  her  to  a  broad  lounge,  the 
Englishman  sat  by  her  side,  with  one  of  her 
hands  held  in  his  -own,  but  saying  scarcely  a 
word  the  while.  His  heart  was  dumb  with 
eloquence. 

Leaving  the  lady  Gustine  and  Robert  Stan 
ley,  as  they  probably  would  themselves  wish 


us  to  do  so,  alone,  we  will  go  back  with  the 
reader  for  a  single  moment,  to  the  strong  hold 
of  the  banditti  in  the  depth  of  the  forest. 

The  two  fugitives  had  been  absent  from  the 
cave  but  little  more  than  an  hour,  when  the 
watchful  eye  of  Karl  Blasius,  whose  custom 
it  was  to  rise  early  and  examine  into  all  mat 
ters  carefully  for  himself,  discovered  the  con 
dition  of  the  priest.  A  suspicion  of  the  truth 
at  once  flashed  across  his  mind,  and  hastening 
to  the  cell  where  the  lady  Gustine  had  been 
confined,  his  worst  fears  were  realized,. for  the 
bird  had  flown,  and  its  cage  was  empty.  Rush 
ing  in  no  pleasant  mood  to  the  sentinel,  who 
still  kept  watch  at  the  entrance  of  the  care, 
and  striving  to  repress  his  excitement,  the  en 
raged  robber  asked  sternly : 

"  Who  has  passed  you  out  of  the  cave  this 
morning.  Do  you  know?" 

"Yes,  captain." 

"Well,  who?" 

"  The  priest  and  the  Englishman,"  replied 
the  sentinel,  in  amazement. 

"  Fool,"  said  the  robber,  in  a  whirlwind  of 
passion.  "  It  was  the  lady  prisoner  who  went 
out  in  the  priest's  dress.  Have  you  no  eyes, 
no  caution,  that  prisoners  can  pass'  you  un 
challenged,  and  at  such  an  hour?" 

"  We  were  told,  captain,  that  the  English 
man  and  the  priest  would  have  been  together 
this  morning,  and  we  had  orders  yesterday  to 
pass  him  unchallenged,  and  it  was  so  early 
that—" 

"  Enough,  enough,  the  evil  has  occurred, 
discussion  will  now  do  no  good ;  but  we  must 
see  how  far  we  can  retrieve  the  mischief  your 
carelessness  has  brought  upon  us.  How  long 
since  they  passed  you  ?" 

"  An  hour,  perhaps." 

"  An  hour,  it  is  a  good  start,"  said  the  rob 
ber,  musing  for  a  moment  on  the  chances  in 
his  favor.  "  Throw  up  your  post,  and  get  to 
saddle  at  once  ;  the  road  to  the  highway  must 
first  be  followed." 

The  robber  put  his  bugle  to  his  lips,  and 
blew  a  blast  in  the  cave  that  made  every  soul 
in  it  start  to  their  feet.  They  were  too  well 
accustomed  to  be  called  upon  suddenly,  not  to 
understand  how  to  complete  a  hasty  toilet, 
and  in  five  minutes  after  that  bugle  note  had 
sounded,  forty  men  armed  to  the  teeth,  were 
scouring  the  paths  and  defiles  of  the  forest  in 
pursuit  of  the  fugitives.  * 


CHAPTER     XX. 


THE  LORD   OF   GHERTSTEIN'S   STORY. 

"  Is  it  e'en  so? — Why  then, 
Live  on — thou  hast  the  arrow  at  thy  heart ! 
Fix  not  on  me  thy  sad  reproachful  eyes, 
I  mean  not  to  betray  thee.     Thou  mayst  live ! 

Didst  thou  ask 

If  Raymond,  too,  must  die? — It  is  as  sure 
As  that  his  blood  is  on  thy  head." 


IN  the  meantime,  Robert  Stanley  became  daily 
more  domesticated  at  Ghertstein's  castle,  pass 
ing  the  fire-side  hours  with  Gustine  and  her 
father,  while  the  latter  seemed  never  tired  of 
relating  the  many  legends  and  stories  that  he 
remembered  of  the  Rhine  Valley.  One  soft, 
moonlight  night,  when  the  three  were  gath 
ered  at  the  ample  portico  that  overlooked  the 
river  and  the  valley  for  miles,  the  lord  of 
Ghertstein  replied  to  their  soliciting  for  one  of 
his  Rhine  legends,  that  he  would  relate  one 
that  was  told  him  by  his  old  tutor,  the  astrolo 
ger  Zimbach,  of  Hardheim  castle,  and  assum 
ing  an  easy  position,  he  related  it  as  nearly 
as  possible  in  the  tutor's  own  words  : 

"  The  day  was  warm  and  murky — the  at 
mosphere  dense  and  almost  suffocating  in  its 
breezeless  stillness — the  sun  had  hidden  his 
face,  and  thick,  lowering  clouds,  rolled  heavily 
along  the  horizon,  evidently  betokening  a 
coming  storm.  The  birds  flew  uneasily  from 
tree  to  tree,  and  a  wild,  mysterious  air  seem 
ed  to  pervade  all  things,  for  it  is  of  the  Hartz 
forest  that  I  am  telling  you. 

"  Wolfgang  Herkmer,  a  young  German 
student,  having  left  the  university,  was  travel 
ling  towards  his  home  to  see  his  aged  parents 
and  his  darling  little  sister,  the  pretty  Mi- 
grette ;  but  as  he  observed  these  tempestuous 
signs,  he  cast  his  eyes  anxiously  upwards,  and 


hastened  his  pace,  in  hopes  before  nightfall 
to  leave  the  dark  gloomy  forest  behind  him. 
For  he  was  no  stranger  to  the  wild  and  fright 
ful  tales  of  these  localities,  and  many  ar 
guments  had  been  made  by  his  friends  at  his 
starting,  to  dissuade  him  from  venturing  upon 
this  route  alone.  But  Wolfgang  was  of  a 
brave  and  adventurous  spirit.  This  was  his 
nearest  route,  and  he  had  nothing  to  tempt 
the  cupidity  of  the  outlaws,  but  the  little  pack 
which  he  carried,  containing  his  slender  ward 
robe  and  a  few  groschen. 

"  He  had  travelled  thus  far,  perhaps  nearly 
two  thirds  of  the  way,  through  the  forest  un 
molested,  and  had  nearly  dismissed  from  his 
mind  all  thoughts  of  danger,  when  he  heard 
the  growling  of  what  appeared  to  him  to  be 
wolves,  and  that,  too,  very  near  to  him. — 
Wolfgang  looked  in  all  directions,  but  he  could 
discover  nothing,  while  the  stillness  that  fol 
lowed  and  pervaded  the  forest,  seemed  most 
ominous.  The  clouds  now  grew  more  and 
more  threatening,  and  seemed  ready  instant 
ly  to  drop  their  burthen  upon  the  thirsting 
earth.  The  young  student  was,  like  most 
German  students  of  those  days,  strongly 
tinctured  with  superstition,  and  he  now  hur 
ried  on,  muttering  to  himself: 

" '  Well,  well,  it  is  evident  that  I  have  noth 
ing  to  fear  from  brigands  and  highwaymen. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


Ill 


The  fairies  are  holding  their  revels  doubtless, 
and  are  angry  that  their  precincts  should  be 
thus  invaded  by  mortal  footsteps.  The  fairies 
are  very  beautiful,  very  pretty  little  sprites, 
and  surely  I  need  not  fear  them.' 

"  At  this  moment,  he  was  startled  by  the  low, 
hoarse  growl  of  a  wolf,  and  before  he  could 
turn  round,  he  felt  his  arms  pinioned  close  to 
his  body  by  the  huge  paws  of  one,  while  an 
other  tightly  embraced  his  legs.  He  was  then 
lifted  up,  supernaturally  it  seemed  to  him,  for 
it  was  now  grown  suddenly  so  dark  that  he 
could  distinguish  nothing,  but  still  he  felt  the 
pressure  upon  his  arms  and  limbs.  At  this 
moment  too  he  was  conscious  of  inhaling  a 
sweet,  but  very  powerful  perfume,  while  a  de 
lightful  sensation  suffused  his  whole  frame  ; 
a  mist  seemed  gradually  to  cover  his  eyes ; 
he  tried  in  vain  to  speak,  for  his  tongue  seem 
ed  utterly  paralyzed,  and  a  dizziness  and  sub 
sequent  insensibility  stole  over  his  frame, 
*  *  *  # 

" '  Softly,  softly,  Bobbis,  do  you  not  see 
that  his  delicate  skin  is  all  unused  to  such 
harsh  treatment  ?  Apply  your  restoratives 
and  frictions  more  gently,  or  in  restoring  his 
consciousness,  you  will  make  a  cripple  of  him 
for  life.  There,  he  revives  a  little.  P  faith, 
that  was  too  powerful  a  dose  for  him,  and  I 
feared  that  we  had  given  him  his  quietus.' 

"  «  Well,  what  matter  if  it  were  so,'  growl 
ed  Bobbis,  a  hideous  dwarf,  whose  immense 
head,  covered  by  a  shock  of  stiff,  reddish  look 
ing  bristles,  was  thrust  into  the  face  of  Wolf 
gang,  who  lay  extended  upon  a  rude  bed  in 
a  still  ruder  looking  cell  or  hole.  The  dwarf 
once  more  bent  his  ear  towards  the  mouth  of 
the  prostrate  man,  and  after  listening  silently 
thus  for  a  single  moment,  muttered  surlily  : 

"  '  No  danger,  he's  breathing  fast  enough, 
and  take  my  word  for  it,  if  you  let  him  live, 
he  will  yet  be  the  means  of  bringing  all  of  us 
— you  know  where,  well  enough." 

" '  Peace,  fool ;  did  you  ever  know  me  wil 
lingly  and  needlessly  to  take  life  ?  I  had  a 
use  for  the  student,  or  I  should  not  have 
brought  him  here.  I  warn  you  on  your  peril, 
harm  him  not.  Do  you  hear,  dolt  ?' 

"'Master,  I  obey,'  replied  the  dwarf,  hum 
bly,  as  he  cowered  before  the  eye  that  was 
bent  upon  him. 

"  Gernhault,  the  one  whom  the  dwarf  ad 
dressed  as  his  master,  was  a  noble  specimen 


of  a  man,  in  his  physical  developments.  Tall 
and  athletic  in  his  frame,  his  form  was  mould 
ed  to  the  perfect  proportions  of  symmetry,  and 
his  countenance,  almost  superhuman  in  its 
beauty,  was  illumined  by  an  eye  which  seem 
ed  to  read  the  very  soul  of  those  on  whom  it 
was  fixed,  but  which  was  nevertheless  at  times 
almost  mournfully  tender  in  its  expression. — 
His  whole  countenance  bore  the  stamp  of  in 
tellect  and  of  great  energy,  but  it  was  a  face 
also  that  puzzled  the  careful  observer,  almost 
as  much  as  it  interested.  One  could  not  but 
fear  as  he  gazed,  that  the  noble  impulses  were 
too  frequently  checked  by  the  passionate. — 
But  his  character  will  develope  itself. 

"  The  place  to  which  Wolfgang  had  been 
borne,  was  a  cavern  in  the  recesses  of  a  rock 
in  the  Hartz  forest.  It  was  not,  as  many  of 
those  caverns  were  said  to  be,  immensely 
large  and  extending  a  great  distance  under- 
'  ground,  for  most  of  these  were  well  known  to 
the  authorities,  and  had  been  effectually 
scoured.  But  this  rock  one  would  never  have 
thought  of  as  affording  concealment  for  any 
number  of  persons.  It  was  comparatively  so 
small,  and  so  unlike  all  those  which  had  here 
tofore  afforded  shelter  to  the  prowling  brig 
ands  of  the  forest,  who  had  ever  abound 
ed  in  this  mysterious  wood  and  its  vicinity. 

"  The  surface  of  the  rock  was  small,  and 
the  greater  part  was  taken  up  by  a  sort  of 
natural  trap  door,  half  concealed  by  the  rank 
growth  of  vegetation  about  it,  and  which  led 
to  a  subterranean  vault  or  passage,  which  had 
been  divided  into  three  compartments,  one 
corresponding  with  that  in  which  Wolfgang 
had  been  placed,  and  one  very  much  larger, 
where  now  reclined,  upon  the  bare  earth, 
about  a  dozen  stalwart  men,  dressed  in  the 
fanciful  style  of  roving  soldiers  or  banditti. — 
Around  the  cave  were  suspended  cutlasses, 
sabres,  daggers  and  swords,  different  kinds  of 
fire  arms,  pistols  and  the  like — besides  which 
the  men  were  completely  armed. 

"  In  one  corner  of  this  apartment  sat  a  man 
of  apparently  fifty  years  of  age  whose  strong 
resemblance  in  his  general  features  to  Gern 
hault,  at  once  proclaimed  him  a  near  relation. 
He  sat  with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground, 
and  his  whole  attitude  denoting  the  deepest 
dejection.  On  the  table  before  him,  were  nu 
merous  diminutive  vials,  containing  powders 
of  various  colors,  and  a  large  leaden  box  at 


112 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


his  side  was  filled  with  the  implements  neces 
sary  to  the  chemist.  A  crucible,  from  which 
the  coals  were  now  dying  out,  and  the  faint, 
sickly  odor  which  filled  the  cavern,  plainly 
indicated  that  he  had  just  been  engaged  in 
distilling  some  powerful  elixir,  perhaps  in  its 
effect  as  potent  as  the  most  subtle  narcotics 
and  poisons  of  the  famed  Catherine  de  Medi- 
cis.  A  hand  softly  laid  upon  his  shoulder, 
caused  him  to  look  up,  when  a  tender  and  af 
fectionate  smile  at  once  irradiated  his  features 
at  sight  of  the  gentle  intruder  who  now  stood 
by  his  side. 

"  'Ah !  Lulu,  my  pet,  my  blossom,  it  is  time 
that  thou  wert  slumbering.  Come,  ma  petite, 
let  me  see  thee  on  thy  couch.  Surely  Gern- 
hault  did  not  call  for  thy  assistance,  to  aid  the 
young  stranger.' 

" '  Ah  !  no,  my  father,  Gernhault  has  just 
induced  him  to  take  some  wine,  and  on  being 
promised  that  no  harm  should  come  to  hmfiP 
he  has  fallen  into  a  natural  and  profound 
slumber.  But  thou,  my  father,  seemest  so 
unhappy  to-night,  and  hast  remained  so  Iqng 
over  thy  drugs  and  potions,  thut  I  could  not 
rest  until  I  saw  thee  leave  them.' 

" '  My  sweet  and  gentle  Lulu,  thou  art  ever 
most  dear  to  me,'  replied  the  father,  kissing 
her  fair  cheek. 

"  And  surely  never  was  moulded  a  lovelier 
creature,  than  she  on  whom  the  doting  father 
now  gazed  with  rapture.  The  small,  classi 
cally  formed  head  was  covered  with  a  profu 
sion  of  golden,  sunny  ringlets,  which  fell  in 
their  rich  luxuriance  over  her  shoulders  to  her 
very  waist ;  her  forehead,  white  and  polished 
as  ivory,  was  singularly  high,  giving  an  ex 
pression  of  dignity  to  her  face,  which  other 
wise,  so  small  and  delicate  were  the  features, 
might  have  seemed  to  lack  expression.  But 
her  eyes,  large,  dark  and  lustrous,  were  like 
those  of  her  brother  Gernhault,  wonderfully 
beautiful,  forming  a  singular  contrast  to  her 
sunny  hair.  She  was  very,  very  pale,  pro 
bably  owing  to  the  want  of  outdoor  exercise 
and  of  the  light  of  heaven,  which  nev 
er  penetrated  the  cave,  huge  iron  lamps  af 
fording  the  necessary  artificial  light,  and 
which  were  never  permitted  to  go  out  day  or 
night.  Lulu  was  of  a  medium  height,  but 
her  form  was  most  fragile  in  its  proportions. 

The  apartment  to  which  her  father  now  led 
her  for  repose,  formed  a  striking  contrast  to 


the  rest  of  the  cave.  It  was  very  small,  but 
was  most  luxuriously  and  tastefully  furnished, 
and  her  little  down  bed  was  encircled  by  thick 
silk  curtains,  which  most  effectually  shielded 
it  from  the  dampness  of  the  cave.  The  floor 
or  stony  bottom  of  the  cave  was  covered  with 
many  thicknesses  of  wolf  skins,  over  which 
was  spread  a  light  woven  carpet  of  woollen 
fabric.  After  obtaining  a  promise  from  Lulu, 
that  she  would  retire  at  once  to  repose,  the 
father  left  her,  and  carefully  arranging  the 
iron  door  of  the  entrance  to  the  little  room, 
passed  into  the  outer  cave,  and  bidding  the 
dwarf  go  and  lie  down, he  beckoned  Gernhault 
to  his  side : 

"  '  Art  sure,  my  boy,  that  the  young  stran 
ger  sleeps  soundly  now  ?' 

"  '  Yes ;  the  effect  of  the  drug  has  not  yet 
passed  off,  and  he  is  now  in  a  sleep  that  will 
not  break  until  the  sun  has  mounted  high  to 
morrow.' 

"  '  That  is  well,  and  all  is  as  it  should  be,' 
said  the  father,  earnestly. 

" « But  what  of  the  other  enterprise,  father  ?' 
asked  Gernhault. 

"  '  In  four  hours  we  shall  set  forth  on  our 
path  to  the  castle.  I  would  I  could  shake  off 
this  melancholy,  which  more  than  usually  op 
presses  me  this  evening.  But  thoughts  of 
her  always  affect  me  thus,  and  did  I  not  feel 
certain  that  young  Egbert  shall  not  come  to 
harm  among  us,  I  fear  even  the  sweet  pros 
pect  of  revenge  would  be  insufficient  to — ' 

"  '  Why,  father,'  interrupted  Gernhault, 
fiercely,  '  talk  not  thus.  I  have  sworn  on  my 
sword  to  be  richly  revenged  on  the  ravisher  of 
my  mother,  and  by  the  powers  of  darkness,  no 
womanly  squeamishness  shall  interfere  to  pre 
vent  the  fulfilment  of  my  vow.  And  if,'  con 
tinued  he,  intensely  excited,  '  you  need  any 
incitement  to  this  deed,  you  have  but  to  gaze 
on  this.' 

"  As  he  spoke,  Gernhault  pressed  his  finger 
on  a  ledge  of  wooden  frame-work,  fitted  into 
the  rock,  and  so  closed  as  to  exactly  resemble 
it,  when  the  board  flew  back,  and  disclosed 
the  portrait  of  a  beautiful  woman  in  the  bloom 
of  youthful  beauty.  To  her  side  she  pressed 
with  exulting  fondness,  a  little  girl  of  perhaps 
two  summers,  while  a  boy,  some  three  years 
older,  leaning  on  her  knee,  played  with  the 
rich  jewels,  with  which  her  lovely  arms  were 
decorated. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


113 


" '  Such,'  continued  Gernhault,  '  was  my 
mother,  ere  the  villain  Ingald  Aldema  came 
with  his  false  protestations  and  his  wily  flat 
tery  to  beguile  her  from  her  duty,  and  which 
had  ever  before  constituted  her  pleasure. — 
Ah !  my  father,  I  see  that  I  need  say  no  more 
— your  thirst  for  revenge  is  once  more  reviv 
ed.  Say,  my  father,  if  this  be  not  so  ?' 

"  But  Gernhault  had  no  further  need  to  in 
cite  his  father  by  these  reminiscences,  for 
Kluften  now  stood  gazing  on  the  picture,  his 
eye-balls  distended  and  bloodshot,  his  face 
crimsoned  with  excitement,  while  big  drops  of 
perspiration  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  He 
clutched  nervously  his  sword,  and  turning 
round  to  Gernhault,  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper : 
"  '  It  is  enough — and  I  am  ready ;'  then  turn 
ing  from  him,  he  abruptly  left  the  spot. 

^l*  vi*  *n?  *)? 

"  «  Well,  Alfred,'  said  the  lord  of  Lurnbeg, 
as  he  sat  with  his  attendants  at  a  large  oaken 
table,  on  which  were  immense  trenchers  of 
beef,  flanked  on  either  side  by  large  patties  of 
bears'  meat  and  rabbit  stews,  while  the  bowl 
in  the  centre  and  the  foaming  silver  flagons 
at  each  plate,  gave  indications  that  the  ban 
quet  would  continue  till  a  late  hour,  '  what 
luck  at  the  chase  to-day?  I  have  but  ill 
brooked  the  sound  of  the  many  huntsmen's 
horns,  and  the  cheering  barking  of  our  faith 
ful  dogs,  knowing  the  while  that  this  accursed 
lumbago  in  my  foot  prevents  me  from  joining 
thee.  I  warrant  me  thou  hadst  fine  sport. — 
Eh,  knave  ?' 

"  '  In  truth,  yas,  my  lord ;  we  wanted  but 
your  presence  to-day,  for  the  complete  perfec 
tion  of  the  sport.  But  the  learned  Gruno 
says  his  drugs  will  soon  work  healing  to  thy 
lameness,  if,  my  lord,  thou  wilt  but  diet  as  he 
counsels  thee.' 

"  '  Peace,  varlet,  the  rich  wine  I  will  have ; 
and  the  old  dotard,  Gruno,  shall  still  cure  me, 
or  by  my  sword,  let  him  look  to  himself. — 
But  enough  of  this.  Come,  hurrah  for  a 
song : 

"  '  The  sparkling,  ruby  wine, 

The  produce  of  the  vine, 
Will  drive  from  pur  hearts  all  sorrow  ; 

Fill  each  glass  to  the  brim, 

N'er  heed  old  Gruno's  whim, 
Not  a  care  will  we  have  for  the  morrow. 
Then  fill  to  the  brim,  &c.' 

And  thus  with  song  and  jest,  the  revelry 
8 


was  kept  up  until  a  late  hour,  and  the  lord  of 
Lurnbeg  was  at  last  borne  to  his  couch  by 
two  of  his  menials,  while  his  retainers  and 
friends  lay  overpowered  by  the  wine  on  the 
bare  oaken  planks  of  the  banquet  room. 

"  All  was  hushed  and  still  in  the  castle.  In 
a  high  room  in  one  side  of  the  western  turret, 
young  Egbert — son  of  the  lord  of  Lurnbeg 
and  of  the  beauteous  Ildegruda,  whom  he  had 
so  artfully  cajoled  from  her  doting  husband, 
even  while  sharing  his  hospitality — pursued  his 
midnight  studies.  At  last  overpowered  by 
fatigue  and  drowsiness,  his  head  dropped  upon 
the  book  before  him,  and  he  sank  into  a  heavy 
slumber,  from  which  he  was  aroused  by  feeling 
his  arms  tightly  pinioned.  On  looking  about 
him  as  soon  as  his  eyes  were  fairly  open,  he 
distinguished  the  figures  of  some  eight  or  ten 
men,  all  armed  at  every  point.  He  was  about 
go  shout  for  assistance,  when  one,  who  was 
apparently  the  leader,  instantly  put  his  hand 
upon  his  mouth,  saying  in  his  ear : 

" '  Hush  !  make  no  resistance  and  I  swear 
on  my  sword  thou  shalt  not  be  harmed,  other 
wise,  look  around  you  and  judge  if  you  can 
escape  us.  Will  you  give  me  your  solemn 
promise,  that  if  I  release  my  hold,  you  will 
quietly  refrain  from  uttering  a  syllable,  and 
will  do  as  I  direct  ?  I  warn  you  that  when 
once  the  passion  of  my  followers  is  up  and 
aroused  by  resistance,  I  even  cannot  control 
their  passions,  and  the  object  of  their  dislike 
must  die.  I  have  warned  you — have  I  your 
promise  ?' 

"  Egbert,  seeing  no  alternative,  and  trust 
ing  to  Providence  and  his  wits  to  enable  him 
ere  long  to  make  his  escape  from  his  captors, 
nodded  his  head  in  token  of  assent  to  the 
leader's  question. 

"  Gernhault,  for  it  was  he,  instantly  remov 
ed  his  hand  from  Egbert's  lips,  and  beckoned 
to  two  of  his  men,  who  lifted  their  prisoner  at 
once  upon  their  arms,  and  in  the  next  moment 
a  potion  of  the  same  powder  which  had  so 
powerfully  affected  Wolfgang,  was  placed  upon 
his  lips,  and  he  was  borne  away  in  a  state  of 
complete  insensibility,  by  the  two  men  who 
had  raised  him  at  Gernhault's  orders.  Nor 
did  they  lay  him  down  except  upon  the  horse, 
and  then  he  was  borne  away  to  the  cave  in 
the  Hartz  forest. 

"In  the  meantime,  Gernhault  and  his  fath 
er  proceeded  at  once  to  the  sleeping  apartment 


114 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


of  Rheitzmar,  the  lord  of  Lurnbeg,  leaving 
the  rest  of  the  men  to  watch  near  the  door  of 
the  servants'  halls,  the  huge  chains  to  which 
they  had  already  secured.  The  old  lord  was 
soon  aroused  by  their  flaming  torches,  which 
cast  a  brilliant  light  through  the  gloomy 
chamber,  for  he  had,  in  spite  of  his  boasts, 
drank  much  less  wine  than  the  others,  and  had 
already  slept  off  not  a  small  share  of  its  ef 
fects.  At  the  sight  of  the  two  armed  men? 
ythen  standing  before  him,  he  at  once  started 
up  on  his  couch,  and  gave  utterance  to  a  yell 
of  rage  and  fear.  At  this  moment,  Kluften, 
wrought  up  to  fury  by  the  sight  of  the  man 
who  had  so  basely  betrayed  his  hospitality,  by 
stealing  his  idolized  wife  from  his  heart, 
clenched  the  old  man's  throat  in  his  grasp  as 
though  it  had  been  one  of  iron,  and  muttered 
between  his  teeth : 

"'Villain!  Base  betrayer !  At  last  I  have  ( 
thee  in  my  power  !  Revenge  has  been  long 
delayed  to  my  panting  heart,  but  it  is  sweet 
to  the  taste  at  last.  Didst  think,  old  man,  be 
cause  thou  hadst  remained  unmolested  these 
many  long  years,  Kluften  would  forego  his 
revenge  ?  Ha  !  thou  wilt  find  thy  mistake  at 
last.  While  Ildegruda  lived,  my  foolish  love 
for  her,  which  even  her  desertion  could  not 
estrange,  kept  me  from  harming  thee,  while 
the  long  war  has  afforded  me  and  my  brave 
Gernhault  some  little  respite  from  our  gloomy 
thoughts.  But  now,  base  worm,  I  will  pun 
ish  thee  in  a  fitting  manner.  Thou  shalt 
not  die  ;  that  were  too  light  a  doom  for  thee. 
Wouldst  thou  know  thy  miserable  fate  ?'  he 
now  almost  whispered,  having  grown  perfectly 
furious  in  his  passion.  '  I  will  tell  thee,  vil 
lain  : 

"  '  Thou  rememberest  the  Donheist  stone  in 
the  centre  of  the  Black  forest,  and  knowest 
also  that  its  cavity  is  just  large  enough  to  al 
low  of  the  entrance  of  a  single  person.  There 
thou  shalt  lie  chained.  But  thou  art  not  to 
starve — death  would  then  relieve  thee  speedi 
ly.  Bread  and  water  shall  be  supplied  to  thee 
by  my  Invisibles ;  and  now,  old  man,  learn  thy 
worst  punishment :  Egbert,  thy  idolized  son — 
nay,  start  not  at  the  mention  of  his  name; 
well  do  I  know  thy  doting  fondness  for  the 
boy, — Egbert  is  condemned  to  an  imprison 
ment  hopeless  as  thine  own.  I  have  said. — 
Gernhault,  thy  bugle.' 
>(  At  the  first  faint  blast  upon  the  instru 


ment,  his  followers,  who  had  been  impatiently 
expecting  the  summons,  filed  into  the  room, 
and  lifting  the  old  man  as  they  had  done  Eg 
bert,  after  rendering  him  insensible  in  a  like 
manner,  they  bore  him  away  to  the  forest 
cave,  not  having  even  disturbed  the  slumbers 
of  the  sottish  menials  of  the  castle. 

*  *  *  * 

"  '  Now  Wolfgang,'  said  Kluften,  '  I  have 
told  thee  all  my  story.  Thou  mayst  think 
me  too  severe  and  revengeful  in  my  adminis 
tration  of  justice;  but  this  matter  we  will  not 
discuss.  I  will  tell  thee  why  thou  wert  brought 
hither  by  two  of  my  men,  disguised  in  wolf 
skins.  I  wish  the  boy,  Egbert,  to  have  every 
care  and  attention  suited  to  his  future  rank, 
for  at  a  fitting  time  I  shall  claim  for  him  his 
father's  broad  lands  and  castles.  I  have  fitted 
up  rooms  in  the  old  ruin  hard  by,  called  by 
the  superstitious,  "The  Enchanted  Tower;" 
thither  I  intend  to  carry  Egbert  and  his 
mother's  daughter,  Lulu,  and  I  want  thee  to 
attend  them,  as  a  faithful  tutor.  I  have  mark 
ed  thee  well,  this  long  time  past,  and  have  sin 
gled  thee  out  for  this  purpose,  because  I  know 
that  thou  art  generous,  faithful,  and  fully  com 
petent  to  this  task. 

"  '  I  would  not  wound  thy  feelings,  but  I 
know  also  that  thou  hast  as  yet  nothing  for 
thy  future  support.  I  will  enrich  thee,  foi  de 
spite  the  rude  appearance  of  our  place  of  shel 
ter,  I  have  gold  in  abundance.  Thou  wilt 
always  sleep  here  in  this  cave.  This  will 
perhaps  seem  hard  to  thee  at  first,  but  thou 
wilt  soon  become  accustomed  to  it.  Now 
what  sayest  thou,  Wolfgang2  I  give  thee 
free  choice  in  the  matter,  only  exacting  that 
at  all  events,  you  must  preserve  my  secret 
inviolate.  Some  of  my  men  shall  this  night 
conduct  thee  safely  to  thy  journey's  end,  for 
thou  art  no  doubt  anxious  to  embrace  thy 
mother  and  sister — you  see  I  am  well  inform 
ed  concerning  you — and  if  thou  consentest  to 
my  proposition,  thou  wilt  sign  this  paper  to 
that  effect.  1  will  meet  thee  this  night  week 
at  the  little  inn  near  Barstadt — "  The  Black 
Wolf" — and  return  with  thee  hither.' 

" '  I  agree  to  thy  conditions,  unhesitating 
ly,'  replied  Wolfgang,  for  the  two  brief  inter 
views  he  had  already  enjoyed  with  the  en 
chanting  Lulu  had  served  to  render  the  im 
pressive  student  madly  in  love  with  her,  and 
he  gladly  embraced  an  offer  which  held  out  to 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


115 


him  the  sweet  certainty  of  being  constantly  so 
near  to  her.  And,  thought  he,  it  will  go  hard 
.in  my  instructions,  but  I  will  find  a  means  of 
teaching  this  lovely  creature  also  to  love  me. 
" '  Will  it  content  thee  to  be  a  pupil  of 
mine  ?'  he  asked  of  Lulu,  after  it  had  been 
decided  that  he  should  take  charge  of  her  in 
struction. 

"  '  If  it  please  my  father,  it  must  needs 
please  me,'  she  answered. 

"  But  Wolfgang  saw,  or  he  thought  he  saw, 
her  eyes  express  that  it  would  render  her 
most  happy  to  study  of  him. 

"  '  If  it  please  your  father,  and  yet  pleaseth 
not  thee,  gentle  lady,  I  shall  have  but  a  sorry 
task ;  for  I  would  have  thy  good  wishes  at 
the  outset,  else  it  will  be  but  up-hill  work  at 
best.' 

"  '  0,  I  doubt  not  we  shall  agree  very  well,' 
replied  Lulu,  smiling  at  his  earnestness,  for 
Wolfgang  spoke  from  his  heart. 

" '  Where  there  is  a  will,  there  is  always  a 
way,'  said  her  companion,  '  and  I  am  most 
resolutely  determined  both  to  please  thee,  and 
deserve  thy  father's  confidence,  which  has 
been  so  freely  bestowed  upon  me.' 

"  '  Hast  forgiven  the  violent  means  by  which 
thou  wert  compelled  to  stay  thy  homeward 
journey,  and  brought  a  prisoner  hither  ?' 

"  '  Indeed  yes,  since  it  has  resulted  so  hap 
pily,  and  has  brought  me  to  the  presence  and 
service  of  one  so  pure  and  beautiful  as  is  thy 
father's  daughter.' 

"  The  ready  blush  leaped  to  the  maiden's 
cheek,  but  no  frown  accompanied  it  there  ;  it 
was  not  the  blush  of  anger,  and  Wolfgang 
marked  well  its  import  as  he  gazed  lovingly 
upon  her.  The  truth  was,  from  the  very  hour 
of  his  entrance  to  the  cave,  the  gentle  Lulu 
had  a  tender  interest  in  him,  partly  on  account 
of  his  fine,  manly  person  and  noble  face,  and 
partly  because  such  a  romantic  adventure  had 
brought  them  together.  She  knew  little  of 
the  world,  had  seen  few  men,  and  none  so 


handsome,  she  thought,  as  her  new  instructer, 
and  consequently  the  field  was  open  at  once 
for  the  student  to  prosecute  his  suit,  though 
he  was  cautious  not  to  do  so  too  abruptly,  but 
sternly  checked  the  expression  of  his  love  by 
adopting  the  most  discreet  and  cautious  habits 
of  intimacy.  * 

"All  was  finally  arranged  as  had  been  pro 
posed.  -  Egbert  gradually  became  accustomed 
to  his  situation,  and  was  happy  in  it,  for  he 
knew  nothing  of  his  father's  punishment. — 
Gladly,  in  his  thirst  for  knowledge,  did  he 
drink  at  the  rich  streams  which  Wolfgang's 
learning  opened  to  him.  Lulu,  too,  though 
her  fond  father  had  paid  much  attention  to  his 
child's  studies,  yet  had  much  to  learn  of  her 
gentle  and  attentive  instructer.  Kluften  made 
'The  Enchanted  Tower'  his  constant  home, 
and  Bobbis  and  his  old  mother,  a  wrinkled 
jrone,  who  had  long  occupied  a  wretched  hut 
at  the  borders  of  the  Black  forest,  sufficed 
them  as  attendants. 

"  Gernhault,  with  his  men,  in  obedience  to  a 
summons  from  his  military  commander,  the 
Duke  of  Ernfels,  again  served  in  the  war, 
from  which  he  had  temporarily  withdrawn  to 
assist  his  father  in  his  scheme  of  revenge. — 
He  won  many  laurels  on  the  field  of  battle. — 
But  he  was  not  altogether  content ;  the  image 
of  the  old  prisoner  in  his  terrible  dungeon, 
sometimes  came  over  him  with  startling  vivid 
ness,  and  he  at  last  released  him,  and  had  him 
taken  good  care  of.  But  he  had  lost  his  rea 
son,  and  died  ere  long,  unknown  and  unwept. 
"  How  Wolfgang  won  the  love  of  the  gen 
tle  Lulu,  and  at  last  her  father's  consent  to 
their  marriage,  and  how  Egbert  was  acknowl 
edged  lord  of  the  proud  castle  of  Lurnbeg, 
gaining  all  hearts  by  his  nobleness  and  gener 
osity,  I  may  at  some  other  time  tell  you. — 
And  thus  it  was  that  the  round  stone  in  the 
Black  forest  came  to  be  named  '  The1  Betray 
er's  Punishment.'  " 


CHAPTER    XXI. 


CAPTURE  OF 


BANDITTI. 


"  The  peasant  left  his  vintage, 
The  shepherd  grasped  the  spear. 


IN  the  relation  of  such  old  stories  and  le 
gends  as  that  of  the  Hartz  forest,  the  time 
passed  pleasantly  away  at  Ghertstein  castle, 
and  gradually  Robert  Stanley  became  the  ac 
cepted  and  acknowledged  lover  of  the  fair  lady 
he  had  served  so  well.  The  bold  outrage 
upon  the  laws  by  the  robber  chief,  Karl  Blasius, 
in  his  attempt  to  carry  out  his  fearful  and  re 
vengeful  plan  by  dishonoring  the  lady  Gustine, 
seemed  to  awaken  the  neighborhood  to  a  fresh 
'realization  of  the  danger  that  lurked  so  near 
to  them.  It  had  been  the  policy  of  the  brig 
ands  heretofore  to  commit  their  boldest  depre 
dations  at  a  goodly  distance  from  their  strong 
hold,  thus  in  some  degree  puzzling  conjecture 
as  to  whence  those  came  who  committed  the 
outrage,  though  they  operated  constantly  on 
a  small  scale,  in  their  immediate  neighbor 
hood,  and  from  day  to  day  upon  the  thought 
less  travellers. 

In  relation  to  this,  the  boldest  attempt  for 
years  on  the  part  of  the  robbers,  people  said, 
"  if  such  villany  goes  unpunished,  we  are  no 
longer  safe  in  any  condition  of  life.  We 
know  not  where  the  next  blow  may  be  struck." 

The  authorities  at  once  got  together,  and 
incited  by  the  lord  of  Ghertstein,  not  only 
offered  a  heavy  reward  for  the  head  of  Karl 
Blasius,  dead  or  alive,  but  also  resolved  to  fit 


out  an  expedition,  strong,  well  found,  and  con 
ducted  by  experienced  men,  to  take  him  and 
destroy  his  nest  of  outlaws  in  the  forest,  and 
confiscate  the  proceeds  of  their  robberies. 
Four  of  the  nearest  surrounding  districts  join 
ed  in  this  enterprise  for  the  public  good,  and 
full  five  hundred  regular  troops  were  gathered, 
prepared  and  drilled  for  this  special  service  of 
attacking  the  lion  in  his  den. 

The  information  imparted  to  the  authorities 
by  Robert  Stanley  was  of  no  small  im 
portance  to  them  as  it  regarded  guiding  them 
to  the  cave  of  the  robbers,  as  well  as  suggest 
ing  various  matters  relating  to  the  mode  of 
of  attack,  etc.  The  peasantry  generally 
were  too  much  indebted  to  the  kindness  of 
Karl  Blasius  to  turn  traitor  against  him,  and 
even  the  heavy  sum  offered  by  the  government 
had  no  effect  in  tempting  them  to  play  the 
traitor  to  one  who  had  been  a  true  friend  to 
them.  We  have  before  shown  that  this  was 
a  matter  of  principle,  as  well  as  policy  with 
the  robbers,  thus  to  form  a  host  of  friends 
about  them,  and  many  are  the  expeditions 
against  the  marauders  of  the  wood  that  have 
failed  through  the  false  guiding  or  false  in 
formation  of  a  simple  peasant,  who  felt  that 
his  interests  were  too  much  in  common  with 
the  outlaws,  for  him  to  betray  them. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


117 


So  secretly  was  the  expedition  managed 
that  was  intended  to  operate  against  the  brig 
ands,  that  although  Karl  had  information  that 
a  body  of  troops  were  marching  on  the  high 
way,  he  merely  took  the  precaution  to  draw 
in  his  men,  but  would  not  for  a  moment  be 
lieve  that  they  designed  to  attack  him,  until 
it  was  also  reported  that  the  whole  number 
had  struck  into  the  winding  path  which  the 
lady  Gustine  had  followed,  and  which  led 
directly  to  the  cave.  It  was  a  critical  moment 
with  the  robbers,  but  after  learning  their  num 
bers,  Karl,  finding  that  there  was  no  chance  to 
carry  off  any  amount  of  their  valuable  booty, 
resolved  to  stand  by  and  defend  it  to  the  last. 
The  entrance  to  the  cave  was  narrow,  and 
might  by  stratagem  and  bravery  be  held  for 
days  against  a  superior  force.  Weighing  all 
the  chances  carefully  in  his  mind,  the  captain 
of  the  outlaws  made  his  disposition  of  his 
men  in  the  best  possible  manner  to  effect  the 
objects  he  had  in  view. 

First  a  score  of  good  marksmen  were  sent 
out  to  harass  and  thin  out  the  approaching 
column  of  soldiery,  and  more  especially  to 
disable  the  officers  of  the  expedition.  A 
temporary  door  was  constructed  with  loop 
holes  at  the  cavern's  mouth,  to  protect  those 
within  from  the  shot  of  the  attacking  party, 
while  it  would  enable  the  robbers  to  keep  up 
a  fire  on  their  enemies  with  their  fatal  car 
bines.  Of  course  the  approaching  party  lost 
a  half  dozen  of  their  number  every  few  mo 
ments  by  the  shots  of  the  skirmishing  party, 
and  that,  too,  without  the  regular  soldiers  be 
ing  able  to  return  their  fire,  since  it  came  from 
men  in  ambush,  and  who  were  scattered  in  all 
directions,  in  a  wood  with  which  they  were 
perfectly  familiar,  while  their  enemies  were 
little  better  than  lost  already.  But  the  sight 
of  their  dying  and  wounded  comrades  acted 
as  a  spur  to  the  soldiers,  and  they  hastened 
furiously  on  to  gain  some  spot  where  they 
might  come  hand  to  hand  with  the  enemy,  for 
as  yet  not  a  single  gun  had  been  discharged 
from  their  ranks,  and  they  were  burning  with 
impatience. 

The  skirmishers  retreated  before  the  ad 
vancing  party  until  they  had  nearly  reached 
the  mouth  of  the  cave,  when  they  fired  their 
last  volley  among  the  soldiers,  and  rushed  in 
to  join  their  companions.  The  heavy  oaken 
door  was  then  raised,  and  the  robbers  were 


comparatively  protected  for  the  time  being, 
from  their  enemy's  fire.  Karl  Blasius  had 
been  well  informed  by  his  spies  of  the  strength 
of  the  approaching  party,  and  also  concerning 
their  armament,  but  his  spies  had  forgot 
ten  to  mention  one  most  important  item,  viz., 
that  the  column  had  brought  with  it  a  small 
howitzer,  upon,  or  rather  between  two  mules ; 
a  gun  capable  of  carrying  a  six  pound  ball. 
The  first  intimation  the  robbers  had  that  such 
a  formidable  weapon  was  brought  to  annoy 
them,  was  the  moment  when  it  was  first  dis 
charged,  double  loaded,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
cavern.  But  the  robbers,  though  satisfied 
that  their  time  had  at  last  come,  resolved  to 
fight  to  the  last,  asking  for  no  quarter,  and 
selling  their  lives  dearly. 

At  last  the  fight  became  a  hand  to  hand 
one,  and  the  robbers,  tired  of  their  hiding 
place  which  the  howitzer  had  rendered  so  un 
comfortable — for  it  had  first  driven  them  from 
the  entrance  and  was  then  planted  at  the 
mouth  of  the  cave — rushed  forth  to  attack 
their  enemies  on  the  open  lawn.  The  strug 
gle  was  a  fearful  one,  but  numbers  at  last  out 
weighed  valor  and  desperation,  and,  one  by 
one,  the  robbers  were  either  laid  low  or  cap 
tured  and  bound.  Finally, .Karl  Blasius  him 
self,  wounded  in  a  dozen  places,  was  at  last 
secured  and  bound,  fainting,  and  bleeding 
at  a  dozen  ghastly  wounds  in  various  parts  of 
his  body.  He  was  borne  in  triumph  through 
the  town  of  Bronts,  and  conveyed,  with  the 
surviving  members  of  his  band,  to  prison, 
amid  the  shouts  of  the  excited  populace. 

It  was  to  the  prison  of  Amantz,  which  tow 
ers  at  such  a  height  above  the  river's  course 
below  Bronts,  that  the  brigand  chief  and  his 
followers  were  conducted,  and  here  they  were 
incarcerated  in  its  most  secure  dungeons,  load 
ed  with  chains  and  carefully  watched  over  by 
turnkeys  and  guards,  nor  were  they  permitted 
to  communicate  to  each  other,  or  with  persons 
from  without.  This  was  in  those  days  of 
civil  commotions,  when  revolutions  and  civil 
wars  were  of  constant  occurrence.  Just  at  this 
period,  or  rather  not  long  subsequent  to  it,  a 
sudden  state  of  open  hostility  broke  out  be 
tween  the  different  sections  of  the  country,  and 
soldiers  of  course  being  much  in  demand,  and 
very  scarce  withal,  the  banditti  who  had  been 
taken  with  Karl  Blasius  were  pardoned,  on 
condition  of  their  taking  the  oath  of  allegi- 


118 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


ance  and  performing  faithfully  the  duty  of 
soldiers  in  the  regular  service  of  the  state. 
Their  leader  of  course  was  deemed  too  dan 
gerous  a  man  to  trust  at  large,  and  was  there 
fore  kept  a  prisoner  until  the  character  of  the 
times  should  give  chance  for  a  formal  trial. 

As  the  robber  lay  in  his  solitary  prison, 
alone  and  unheeded,  save  by  his  jailor,  he 
found  how  deeply  he  had  loved  the  fair  lady 
Gustine.  He  realized  that  such  an  affection, 
could  it  have  been  earlier  experienced,  might 
have  made  him  a  very  different  man,  for  even 
now,  though  entirely  hopeless,  yet  it  changed 
the  whole  course  of  his  thoughts,  and  her 
image  was  constantly  before  him.  The  short 
time  during  which  he  had  been  honorably  re 
ceived  at  her  father's  castle,  had  served  so  to 
imprint  her  image  upon  his  heart,  that,  villain 
as  he  was,  he  would  never  forget  the  gentle 
influence  of  those  lovely  eyes,  the  beauty  and 
intellectual  expression  of  those  features,  and 
the  form  that  seemed  to  him  the  perfection  of 
all  female  loveliness.  These  memories  had 
utterly  changed  the  brigand ;  his  antipathy 
to  the  laws  was  gone,  his  hatred  for  the  rich 
seemed  to  be  forgotten — ambition,  hope,  all  his 
finer  feelings  were  changed.  He  had  never 
loved  before.  It  was  his  first  and  his  last  affec 
tion. 

The  jailor  of  Amantz  was  sometimes  forced 
to  relieve  the  guard  that  stood  over  the  wing 
where  Karl  was  confined,  and  after  going  his 
rounds  and  satisfying  himself  that  all  was 
secure,  he  not  unfrequently  entered  his  cell 
to  talk  with  one  who  had  made  himself  so 
famous  by  his  crimes,  and  to  whom  so  much 
curiosity  and  romantic  interest  attached  itself. 
Sometimes  the  jailor  would  relate  some  story 
to  while  away  the  time,  and  more  than  once 
even  the  robber  himself,  grateful  for  company 
of  any  sort,  had  related  some  startling  anec 
dote  to  amuse  and  attract  the  jailor.  It  was 
on  the  occasion  of  one  of  these  meetings  that 
Karl  demanded  of  the  jailor  to  fulfil  a  promise 
he  had  some  time  before  made  to  him  that  he 
would  relate  the  history  of  a  former  tenant 
of  this  very  cell. 


"  Come,  jailor,"  said  he,  "  the  time  lays 
heavily  on  me  here  ;  how  about  that  Rhine 
legend  that  you  promised  to  relate  to  me  in 
payment  for  my  last  adventure  I  told  you  of 
in  the  upper  valley  upon  the  Crutz  castle  ?" 

"  True,  I  did  promise  thee  a  story  in  return 
for  that  relation ;  but  mine  draws  upon  the 
past,  and  is  not  a  story  of  personal  adventure 
like  yours ;  mine  was  told  me  by  my  prede 
cessor  here,  and  true  or  not  true,  he  vouched 
for  it." 

"It  would  be  a  downright  sacrilege  to 
doubt  a  Rhine  legend,"  said  the  robber  chief, 
laughing  ironically  as  he  said  so.  "  But  what 
was  it  about  ?" 

"  It  is  about  Count  Rolfe,  the  former  lord  of 
this  castle  and  his  daughter,  as  lovely  a  lady, 
it  is  said,  as  ever  breathed  the  air  of  the 
valley." 

"Did  the  old  rogue  kill  his  daughter  be- 
'  cause  she  loved  below  her  rank  ?"  asked  the 
robber,  trying  to  forestall  the  jailor  in  his 
story. 

"  No,  no  ;  you  must  let  me  tell  the  story  in 
my  own  way,"  said  the  turnkey — "and  not 
begin  at  the  wrong  end  of  it  either." 

"  True,  I  was  anticipating,"  answered  Karl 
Blasius,  smiling. 

"  But  hark,  there  is  the  north  turret  bell," 
said  the  jailor.  "  It  is  time  to  see  the  guard 
relieved,  and  then  I  will  drop  in  and  tell  thee 
the  whole  story  of  the  proud  Count  Rolfe  and 
his  lovely  daughter." 

"  Come  quickly,  for  I  am  weary,  weary, 
very,"  said  the  robber,  clanking  his  chains, 
and  staggering  under  their  weight. 

"  I'll  be  with  you  anon." 

The  robber  chief  had  made  the  jailor  his 
friend  in  one  sense  of  the  word,  because  he 
had  managed  to  interest  him  by  the  relation 
of  his  own  startling  adventures,  a  description 
of  conversation  that  had  completely  captivated 
the  jailor's  fancy.  Consequently,  although  he 
did  not  remit  the  severity,  to  any  great  degree, 
that  the  authorities  had  imposed  upon  the 
prisoner,  yet,  in  payment  for  the  stories  that 
he  had  heard  from  his  lips,  he  also  would  re 
late  tales  and  legends  of  their  native  valley. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 


THE   JAILOR'S    STORY 


"A  story  of  the  olden  time." 


"  MANY  years  ago,"  commenced  the  jailor, 
"  there  was  here  imprisoned  a  gallant  knight 
who  had  incurred  the  vengeance  of  the 
haughty  Count  Rolfe,  who  was  then  lord  of 
this  castle,  and  all  the  region  round  about 
it.  Count  Rolfe  was  a  proud,  stern  man,  of 
a  swarthy  countenance  and  a  fierce,  gleaming 
eye ;  and  it  was  currently  reported  that  he 
dealt  with  things  which  it  did  not  befit  mor 
tals  to  know,  or,  in  other  words,  that  he  had 
made  himself  master  of  the  arts  of  magic  in 
cantation  and  power." 

"  Hold,"  said  the  prisoner ;  "  these  bars 
weigh  me  down ;  will  you  not  unloose  them 
for  a  while  ?" 

"  Yes,  while  I  am  here,"  replied  the  jailor, 
removing  the  heaviest  of  the  bar  chains  by  un 
loosing  them. 

"  Good,"  said  the  robber,  satisfied  even  at 
thi?  partial  release,  and  stretching  his  arms 
with  satisfaction.  "  Now  go  on  again." 

"  Well,  this  count  Rolfe  had  an  only  child, 
a  daughter,  who  was  so  perfect  a  contrast  to 
the  haughty  chief  himself,  that  observers  look 
ed  and  wondered  that  one  so  gentle  and  so  fair 
could  come  of  such  a  lineage.  Indeed,  the 
beautiful  Hildegard  partook  far  more  of  the 
spirit  of  that  lovely  mother  who  had  in  the 


daughter's  early  childhood  departed  for  the  si 
lence  of  the  tomb;  though  the  courageous 
spirit  of  the  count  had  not  perhaps  entirely 
failed  of  giving  some  tinge  to  the  character  of 
his  child. 

"  It  was  at  the  close  of  a  brilliant  day  of 
Junej  when  the  dark-hued  count  returned 
with  his  followers  from  a  distant  expedition. 
They  reached  the  castle,  leading  in  their  ar 
ray  the  prisoners  whom  they  had  secured  in 
their  absence.  All  the  inmates  of  the  castle 
were  on  the  alert  to  greet  the  victorious  war 
riors,  lining  the  battlements  and  turret  tops  to 
overlook  them,  and  even  the  fair  Hildegard 
herself,  not  willing  as  yet  to  show  herself 
among  the  din  and  turmoil  of  a  military  es 
cort  and  arrival,  leaned  lightly  forward  from 
her  little  balconied  ehamber,  to  gaze  upon  the 
warlike  and  victorious  company.  She  pitied  the 
unfortunate  prisoners,  at  the  same  time  that  her 
heart  exulted  with  warm  animation  at  the  suc 
cess  of  her  friends.  But  chief  of  all  those 
who  attracted  her  attention,  was  the  figure  of 
a  youthful  knight,  led  forward  with  his  arms 
bound  ignominiously  behind  him.  His  coun 
tenance  was  sad,  but  not  dismayed,  and  he 
bore  his  ill  fortune  manfully,  and  with  an 
erect  and  martial  port.  His  helmet  was  off, 


120 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


and  his  thick  auburn  locks  curled  over  a  noble 
brow  clear  as  the  cloudless  heaven,  while  his 
dark  blue  eye  and  well  shaped  features  be 
spoke  the  soul  which  animated  without  deceit 
his  fine  and  well  knit  form.  He  was  a  noble 
captive  to  look  upon,  as  he  rode  thus  into  the 
gates. 

"  Hildegard  felt  an  agitation  to  which  she 
had  heretofore  been  a  stranger,  and  turning 
back  within  the  silence  of  her  room,  she 
thought  long  of  the  hapless  stranger  knight, 
so  noble  and  so  handsome ;  she  thought  of  him 
as  despoiled  of  his  domain  and  torn  from  his 
friends,  perhaps  to  perish  within  her  father's 
dungeon  walls — strangely  did  the  image  of  the 
prisoner,  his  sad  countenance  and  noble  bear 
ing,  pursue  her  thoughts  by  day  and  her 
dreams  by  night. 

"  'Might  she  not  dare,'  thus  came  the  half 
framed  thought,  to  intercede  with  her  father 
for  the  prisoner's  safety  ?  She  dared  not  yet 
to  speak  of  his  release,  but  if  she  could  but 
feel  assured  of  his  bodily  safety,  and  that  he 
was  spared  from  present  suffering,  that  would  be 
much  to  her  gentle  woman  heart.  '  Might  she 
speak  to  her  father  of  this  without  offence  ?' 

"  And  thus  she  was  affrighted  at  the  temer 
ity  of  her  thoughts,  the  temerity  which  dared 
to  meddle  with  the  hidden  counsels  of  her 
terrible  sire.  Thus  her  thoughts,  sympathies, 
and  fears  swayed  with  agitation  her  innocent 
breast,  fearful  imaginations  weighed  heavily 
upon  her  heart ;  her  soul  struggled  with 
vague  and  undefined  dissatisfaction.  Hilde 
gard  forsook  her  lute,  its  strains  struck  with 
painful  vibrations  against  her  aching  bosom. 
She  came  to  love  the  soft  moonlight,  the 
fleeting  clouds  in  heaven,  the  pensive  glow  of 
dying  day,  rather  than  the  courtly  pastimes 
that  sought  to  attract  her  sympathy;  often 
her  footfall  fell  noiselessly  upon  the  castle 
turrets  and  battlements,  and  once  when  thus 
engaged,  she  heard  a  faint  groan  come  from 
the  dungeon  walls.  She  leaned  forward  to 
listen,  when  again  she  heard  that  sad  expres 
sion  of  mortal  woe.  Her  heart  throbbed  vio 
lently  against  its  bosom  shrine,  and  its  pulsa 
tion  whispered  to  the  maiden  from  whom  those 
accents  came  to  which  she  listened. 

" '  Sir  knight,'  said  the  fair  girl,  tremulous 
with  mingled  fear  and  pity,  '  is  it  thou — the 
Knight  of  Alcanta,  who  art  imprisoned  within 
this  dismal  cell  ?' 


"  There  was  an  instant's  pause,  when  a 
hollow  voice,  in  words  broken  by  exhaustion 
and  weakness,  replied : 

" '  Yes,  gentle  one,  I  am  here ;  thy  voice  be- 
trayeth  thy  sex  and  kindness  of  heart,  and 
for  thy  sympathy,  I  bless  thee.  O,  fair 
maiden,  be  thou  whom  whou  wilt,  remember 
in  thy  prayers  one  who  soon  must  die.' 

"  '  Die  ?'  echoed  the  maiden. 

" '  Ay,  already  do  my  spirits  sink  within 
me.' 

"  'Indeed,  indeed,  this  must  not  be.' 

"  '  Ah,  gentle  one,  it  is  not  for  hearts  like 
thine  to  decide ;  would  that  it  were  so.' 

"  '  No,  no,  sir  knight,'  she  repeated  in  agi 
tated  tones,  '  thou  shalt  not  die  thus,  immured 
in  a  deep  and  cheerless  dungeon.  If  none 
else  can  aid,  I  myself  will  rescue  thee.' 

"  '  God  speed  thee,  gentle  one,  but  I  would 
not  have  thee  endangered  for  my  poor  sake.' 

"  Hildegard  turned  to  her  chamber  with  a 
cheek  now  blushing  like  the  rose,  now  paling 
with  secret  terror,  and  shutting  herself  within 
her  apartment  alone,  she  wept  long  and  sor 
rowfully,  until  at  last  she  determined  to  seek 
her  father  and  strive  to  bend  his  iron  will,  and 
sue  for  the  liberty  of  the  unfortunate  knight. 
With  trembling  feet  she  sought  the  presence 
of  the  count,  and  humbly  knelt  before  him. 
The  count  unbent  his  haughty  brow  and  raised 
up  his  fair  child. 

" '  What  is  it  thou  wouldst  have  of  me, 
my  fair  daughter?' 

" '  O,  my  father,'  entreated  Hildegard,  '  I 
have  a  boon  to  ask  of  thee :  I  pray  thee  be 
not  offended  with  me.  I  would  that  thou 
might  release  the  Knight  of  Alcanta,  who  I 
fear  is  now  dying,  and — ' 

"  '  Begone,  girl !'  exclaimed  the  surprised 
parent,  interrupting  her,  while  the  furious 
blood  rushed  to  his  stormy  countenance.  '  Al 
canta  dies  to-morrow  morn  !  Go,  presumptuous 
girl,  let  me  ,not  hear  again  from  thy  foolish 
lips  such  strange  and  unfitting  requests  as 
thou  hast  just  named.' 

"  Hildegard,  terrified  at  his  angry  manner, 
fled  from  his  presence,  but  in  hurrying  through 
a  hall  that  intervened  between  her  father's 
room  and  her  own,  a  faintness  suddenly  came 
over  her  limbs,  and  she  sank  helpless  upon 
the  floor.  Immediately  a  manly  arm  bore 
her  to  a  seat,  and  placing  her  upon  it,  offered 
such  restoratives  as  might  revive  her.  She 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


121 


soon  revived,  while  Ulerie,  the  youthful  mas 
ter  of  the  broad  lands  of  Ermstahl,  most  anx 
iously  regarded  the  fair  maiden,  for  he  loved 
her  devotedly,  though  he  sighed  that  his  love 
was  not  returned.  As  the  gentle  girl  revived, 
she  beheld  CJlerie  standing  before  her,  when 
she  suddenly  knelt  at  his  feet  imploringly,  and 
said  : 

"  '  O,  Ulerie,  Ulerie,  thou  canst  help,  thou 
canst  help  me.  Thou  wilt,  Uierie,  for  though 
1  must  own  that  I  love  another,  yet  thou  art 
too  generous  to  seek  vengeance  upon  poor  Hil- 
degard  because  her  foolish  heart  hath  else 
where  been  given  O,  if  ever  thou  didst  love 
me,  Ulerie,  then  cast  not  away  lightly  my  en 
treaty.' 

"  « What  wouldst  thou,  Hildegard?'  exclaim 
ed  Ulerie,  almost  as  colorless  in  feature  as 
the  fair  suppliant  whom  he  addressed,  and 
whom  he  gently  raised  to  her  feet  again. 

"'0,  Ulerie,'  replied  the  maiden,  with 
husky  earnestness  of  utterance  ;  '  men  say  that 
that  thou  also  art  learned,  that  thou  hast  se 
crets  of  mighty  power  which  can  perform 
otherwise  impossible  deeds.  I  seek  not  to 
deal  with  evil,  but  I  know  that  thou  art  too 
good,  too  virtuous  to  tamper  with  unholy 
things.  0,  if  thou  canst,  Ulerie,  wilt,  thou 
help  me  ?' 

"  'Perchance  I  maybe  able  to  aid  thy  wish 
es,  my  gentle  Hildegard;  but  alas!  what 
availeth  it  to  me  to  do  so,  I  who  am  doomed 
to  perpetual  sorrow  and  heart-ache  ?' 

"  '  It  does  avail  thee  much,  very  much,  Ule 
rie.  Thou  canst  save  him,  for  if  he  die,  my 
heart  will  surely  break.  Ulerie,  wilt  thou 
save  me  ?' 

"  Ulerie  sighed  heavily,  and  drawing^a  sil 
ver  ring  shaped  like  a  serpent,  from  his  little 
finger,  he  placed  it  upon  one  of  her  snow- 
white  ringers,  and  kissing  tenderly  the  hand 
he  held,  said : 

"  '  Hildegard,  I  must  obey  thy  wishes,  if 
only  to  show  thee  how  truly  I  still  love  thee. 
I  know  not  thy  purpose,  I  ask  it  not,  for  your 
own  sake,  but  I  know  that  if  it  be  in  my  power 
to  help  you,  it  is  through  this  mystic  ring.  It 
was  given  to  my  father  by  the  queen  of  the 
fairies,  to  whom  he  had  done  a  great  kind 
ness,  and  from  him  I  received  it  with  the 
secret  of  its  strange  virtue  and  power.  As 
long  as  thou  hast  it  in  thy  possession,  thou 
canst  at  any  time  attain  thy  lawful  wishes,  by 


merely  pronouncing  the  words  which  I  now 
tell  thee.' 

"  He  whispered  in  her  ear,  and  as  she 
heard  the  magic  words,  a  soft  strain  of  music 
seemed  to  breathe  about  them,  as  if  to  con 
secrate  the  secret  which  had  just  been  impart 
ed  to  her  keeping,. 

" '  0,  Ulerie,'  she  exclaimed,  '  noble-hearted 
indeed  thou  art.  Mayest  thou  be  happier  than 
ever  the  companionship  of  poor  Hildegard 
could  make  thee,  and  thou  wilt ;  for  are  there 
not  many  maidens  whom  thy  love  would  re 
joice,  maidens  far  more  beautiful,  than  is  she 
who  will  never  cease  to  pray  for  and  bless 
thee?' 

"  Again  offering  her  hand  for  his  lips,  the 
gentle  maiden  turned  and  hurried  away  with 
the  talisman  she  had  obtained. 

"  She  had  gone  but  a  few  steps,  however,  be 
fore  she  paused,  not  knowing  how  to  proceed 
in  the  accomplishment  of  her  object.  Here 
tofore  she  had  only  acted  from  uncalculating 
impulse,  the  ardent  desire  to  save  the  captive 
knight. 

"  '  O,  my  talisman,'  she  exclaimed,  '  would 
that  thou  hadst  the  power  to  direct  my  steps. 
But  stay,  let  me  not  forget  the  mystic  words,' 
and  she  slowly  repeated  them  in  a  whisper. 

"  Scarcely  had  she  completed  the  words, 
when  the  ring  which  had  seemed  to  fit  her  fin 
ger  tightly,  fell  off  upon  the  floor,  rolling  at 
once  towards  a  door  in  one  corner  of  the 
apartment.  Hardly  did  Hildegard  touch  it 
with  her  snow-white  hand,  when  it  turned 
on  its  hinges,  and  gave  her  free  passage 
within.  The  ring  still  rolled  on  before  her, 
until  the  fair  girl  came  to  another  door,  low 
and  framed  of  knotty  oak,  fortified  with  thick 
iron  bars.  Hildegard  knew  that  she  was  at 
the  entrance  of  the  flight  of  steps  that  led  to 
the  corridor  on  which  this  cell  then  occupied 
by  the  knight  of  Alcanta  was  situated. 

"  But  now  a  beam  of  lambent  flame  formed 
itself  in  the  damp  air,  and  darted  against  the 
huge  rusty  lock  which  secured  the  door.  The 
heat  was  intense,  the  bolt  was  melted 
with  the  bar  and  the  door  opened  before  the 
astonished  maiden's  eyes.  With  reassured 
heart  as  the  flame  went  before  her  in  the  air, 
she  took  the  ring  in  her  hand  as  she  ascended 
the  steps  :  then  an  invigorating  strength  went 
forth  from  the  fairy  gift,  and  braced  her  timid 
heart  as  she  threaded  the  deep  passage.  At 


122 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


last  the  tiny  glittering  flame  stopped  before 
this  door.  Hildegard's  breath  came  more 
quickly,  for  she  felt  that  this  was  the  abode  of 
the  knight  whom  she  sought.  Then  trembling 
ly  she  touched  the  door,  which  heavily  swung 
back  before  her,  and  she  stood  in  the  presence 
of  the  prisoner.  But  the  captive  heeded  not 
the  fair  visiter — he  lay  upon  a  pallet  of  straw, 
chained  and  insensible. 

"  Hildegard  bent  over  him,  weeping  with  pity 
and  alarm. 

" '  Alas !'  she  said,  '  can  it  be  that  I  am  too 
late  ?  Would  that  his  life  and  strength  were 
restored,  and  those  rude  shackles  were  cast 
from  off  his  limbs.' 

"  Again  was  the  magic  ring  most  powerful ; 
the  mystic  words  had  been  spoken,  the  knight 
arose,  a  sudden  strength  invigorated  him;  he 
sprang  upon  his  feet,  and  the  chains  dropped 
in  fragments  upon  the  floor. 

"  '  Who  art  thou,  fair  one  V  he  exclaimed, 
gazing  with  wonder  upon  her  beauty. 

"  '  I  am  Hildegard.' 

" '  The  daughter  of  the  proud  Count  Rolfe  ?' 
asked  the  knight. 

"  '  I  am  his  only  child.' 

"  '  Alas !  that  it  should  be  that  thou  art  the 
child  of  such  as  he.' 

" '  He  has  indeed  been  cruel  to  thee,' 
said  the  gentle  maiden. 

"  '  But  by  what  strange  power  do  you  thus 
release  me,  fair  maiden  ?' 

"  Hildegard  replied  quickly,though  modestly, 
for  she  felt  that  there  was  no  time  for  delay. 

"  '  Sir  knight,  by  the  power  of  the  magic 
ring  which  I  hold,  I  am  able  to  release  thee. 
Fly  !  fly  instantly  !  for  I  will  show  thee  a  free 
passage  from  the  castle  walls,  and  the  means 
of  escape  from  thence  1  have  already  provid 
ed.  Thou  knowest  well  the  character  of  my 
father,  and  woe  be  to  thee  and  to  me  if  by 
any  chance  we  are  discovered.' 

"  '  Let  us  away,  quickly.  Sir  knight,  follow 
me  at  once.' 

"'Lead  on,  dear  lady,  I  will  follow  thee 
where  thou  wilt.' 

"  Again  the  ring  became  their  guide,  and  led 
them  by  ways  unknown  to  Hildegard  before, 
until  they  found  themselves  without  the  cas 
tle  walls  at  a  quiet  spot,  and  where  stood  a 
coal-black  steed,  summoned  by  the  fairy 
power,  pawing  the  earth  and  awaiting  patient 


ly  for  its  rider  to  mount.  Hildegard  turned 
to  the  knight  with  a  flushing  cheek. 

" '  Sir  knight,'  she  said,  '  the  way  lays  be 
fore  thee — mayest  thou  soon  be  happy  with 
those  thou  lovest.' 

"  The  knight  of  Alcanta  turned  upon  Hilde 
gard  a  mingled  look  of  disappointment  and 
inquiry. 

"  <  Fair  maiden,  I  had  thought  that  thou 
wast  to  accompany  me.  I  had  fondly  suppos 
ed  that  thou  wouldst  be  willing  to  become  the 
bride  of  him  whom  thou  hast  risked  so  much 
to  save.  I  cannot  go  from  here  alone  without 
thee.' 

"  '  Fly,  fly,  quickly,  sir  knight,  before  you 
are  discovered  and  retaken.' 

"  '  Without  thee,  never,'  repeated  the  knight, 
as,  bending,  he  raised  her  to  the  horse's  back 
with  one  effort,  and  in  the  next  moment  he 
was  in  the  saddle,  securing  the  trembling  girl 
with  one. arm,  while  with  the  other  he  guided 
the  flying  steed,  as  it  dashed  over  the  ground 
at  a  speed  that  caused  him  to  seem  not  to 
touch  the  earth  at  all. 

"  '  Why  tremblest  thou,  Hildegard  ?  Surely 
thou  dost  love  me,  or  thou  wouldst  not  have 
ventured  so  much  in  my  behalf.  Wilt  thou 
not  then  be  the  bride  of  one  who  will  ever 
love  and  cherish  thee  ?' 

"  A  sigh  only  answered  the  question. 

" '  Speak,  and  make  me  happy,  gentle  maid 
en,'  said  the  knight. 

"  '  What  can  I  say  at  such  a  fearful  moment 
as  this  ?'  she  asked. 

"  '  Say  only  that  you  love  me,  gentle  one. 
It  is  all  I  ask.' 

"  A  gentle  sigh  escaped  the  bosom  of  Hilde 
gard,  as  she  timidly  looked  up  in  the  face  of 
the  knight,  and  meeting  there  naught  but 
truthful  and  tender  love,  she  bowed  her  head, 
and  a  low  murmur  parted  her  lips. 

"  '  I  am  thine  !' 

"The  knight  gently  kissed  the  blushing  fore 
head  which  pressed  against  his  manly  shoul 
der,  while  onward  flew  the  coal-black  steed, 
like  the  whirlwind  rushing  down  the  moun 
tain's  side. 

"  '  Hark  !'  said  the  maiden,  in  tones  of  af 
fright,  as  a  sound  reached  her  ears. 

"  '  I  hear  nothing,  gentle  one.' 

"  '  Yes,  there  it  is  again,  the  braying  of 
hounds ;  didst  thou  not  hear  it  ?" 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


123 


" '  Now,  I  do  hear  it,  Hildegard,  but  our 
steed  is  fleet.' 

" '  Alas !    if  my  fears   be   true,   not   fleet 
enough,'  she  sighed. 

Then  came  on  the  startled  ear  the  cry  of 
pursuers  and  the  deep  braying  of  hounds,  as  a 
sudden  gust  of  wind  poured  through  the 
forest  depths  almost  with  the  force  of  a  hurri 
cane. 

"  '  O,  Alcanta,'  cried  the  maiden,  shivering 
with  fear,  '  those  are  the  blood  hounds  of  my 
father.  0,  sir  knight,  they  pursue  thee,  and 
will  tear  thee  to  pieces.  It  is  I  who  impede 
thy  progress,  0  leave  me,  dear  knight !  It  is 
thy  blood  they  seek.' 

" '  Never,  Hildegard !'  exclaimed  the  knight. 
'  Sooner  now  would  I  give  up  life  itself  than 
thee.' 

"  '  If  you  love  me,  Alcanta,  leave  me  here, 
and  make  good  your  escape.' 

"  '  Because  I  love  thee  so  well,  I  shall  not 
do  so,  gentle  one.' 

"  Still  nearer  came  the  tumult  and'the  bray 
ing  of  the  hounds,  and  for  a  moment  even 
the  forms  of  the  pursuers  opened  upon 
their  sight,  but  were  soon  lost  again  by  the 
windings  of  the  forest  road.  And  now  in 
front  of  the  fugitives  there  appeared  a  broad 
river,  rushing  swiftly  on  its  way  to  join  the 
waters  of  the  Rhine.  The  knight  paused — 
the  witch  hazel  grew  thickly  about  him,  and 
breaking  off  the  lesser  boughs  and  stems,  he 
strewed  it  across  the  path,  and  doubling  on  his 
course,  turned  back  for  miles,  until  he  came 
to  a  narrow  part  of  the  river  where  he  cross 
ed. 

"  '  I  know,'  said  he,  '  the  brood  of  those 
yelping  hounds.  The  witch  hazel  will  damp 
their  zeal.  They  lose  all  power  of  scent  af 
ter  crossing  it,  at  least  for  a  while,  and  they 
will  thus  be  puzzled  to  follow  us.' 

"  '  Fair  Hildegard,'  said  he,  '  this  eve  shalt 
thou  be  mine  before  the  holy  priest !' 

"  But  now  the  worn-out  steed  began  to  flag 
in  his  onward  course,  and  at  last  stopped, 
reeling  with  fatigue.  Afar  off  was  heard 
the  howling  of  Count  Rolfe's  blood  hounds, 
whose  powers  of  scent  had  been  foiled  by 
the  power  of  the  witch  hazel. 

"  Again  the  knight  urged  on  his  tottering 
steed,  and  again  the  animal  leaped  madly 
forward,  and  trees  and  rocks  and  mountains 
of  strange  aspect  flew  past  them  like  a  vision. 


Then  the  astonished  and  wonder-stricken  pair 
found  themselves  borne  through  a  living  rock 
which  towered  far  up  towards  the  heavens. 
Now  through  cavernous  depths,  dark  as  the 
mantle  of  night,  on,  on  they  were  borne  now 
by  some  strange,  invisible  power,  until  at  last 
they  emerged  into  a  fertile  country,  more  glo 
riously  beautiful  than  aught  which  they  had 
ever  beheld.  A  purple  cloud  surrounded  them 
for  an  instant,  and  when  it  was  again  quickly 
dispersed,  they  found  themselves  reclining  in 
the  sweet  prisonment  of  each  other's  arms  upon 
a  soft  grassy  bank,  where  sprang  wild  flowers 
all  about  them  of  gloriously  varied  hues,  and 
whose  odor,  more  rich  than  that  of  Araby 
the  blest,  brought  soft  incense  of  delight  to 
their  impressible  souls. 

"  How  strange  to  them  seemed  all  that  they 
now  beheld. 

"  The  coal-black  steed  had  vanished  from 
their  sight,  and  Hildegard  and  her  lover  knight 
knew  that  they  were  in  the  realms  of  fairy 
land,  for  they  truly  felt  that  splendor  such  as 
now  met  their  eyes,  was  not  to  be  found  on 
mortal  earth. 

"  Noble  palms  arose  on  every  hand,  bowing 
their  graceful,  tufted  heads,  from  out  of  which 
came  forth  soft  murmurs  of  winged  love,  while 
rarest  birds  warbled  in  the  air,  and  plumed 
their  gaudy  feathers  on  the  brink  of  tiny  lakes, 
and  in  the  measureless  distance  which  bound 
ed  the  gazer's  eye,  were  peaks  of  sapphire 
tinged  with  gold  or  ruby  light  reflected  from 
skies  more  warm  and  glowing  than  poet's 
tongue  could  tell.  What  a  paradise  for  love  ! 
What  a  realm  for  Cupid  ! 

" '  O,  is  this  not  glorious  ?'  whispered  the 
timid  maiden. 

"  '  So  it  be  shared  with  you,  it  is  a  foretaste 
of  paradise.' 

"  And  thus  together  they  reclined  in  sweet 
and  innocent  happiness  of  heart,  entranced 
with  delight,  gazing  into  the  matchless  fields 
of  light,  or  better  s^ill.  into  the  dearer  and 
more  lovely  depths  of  each  other's  eyes. 

"  Suddenly  Hildegard  started  and  pressed  still 
nearer  to  the  side  of  the  knight. 

"  '  What  ails  thee,  dearest  ?'  he  asked,  softly 
parting  the  hair  from  her  forehead. 

"  'Dost  thou  not  hear?'  replied  the  maiden, 
with  a  fearful  tremor. 

"  '  I  hear  nothing,  sweet  one ;  thy  fears  have 
made  thee  weak.' 


124 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  '  Nay,  dear  Alcanta — would  that  my  fears 
were  groundless.  Behold !' 

"  As  she  spoke,  a  dark  vapor  flashed  across 
the  skies,  and  a  burst  of  distant  thunder  rolled 
upon  the  ear,  while  in  its  swelling  volume 
came  again  the  foul  chorus  of  blood  hounds 
opening  on  their  prey.  Hildegard  now  shriek 
ed  with  frantic  terror,  and  threw  her  white 
arms  round  her  lover  as  though  she  might  thus 
protect  him  from  harm.  Thus  he  held  her  ten 
derly  to  his  heart,  while  her  gentle  bosom 
throbbed  against  his  own. 

"  '  They  come,  they  come,  Alcanta — they 
will  destroy  thee.' 

"  '  Dear  Hildegard,'  he  exclaimed,  '  fear  not 
for  me.' 

"  '  Alas !  there  is  a  heavy  weight  upon  my 
soul,  Alcanta.  I  feel  that  we  must  part.' 

"  '  Say  not  so,  dear  one.  I  will  not  part  from 
thee  while  life  remains.' 

"  But,  lo !  harsh  voices  came  on  their  ears, 
they  looked  up  and  found  themselves  at  the 
mercy  of  their  foes,  who,  with  the  wrathful 
Count  Rolfe  and  his  fiery  eyed  hounds,  encir 
cled  them  round.  As  he  stood  there  before 
them,  the  countenance  of  the  ruthless  chief 
tain  flashed  like  a  burning  brand. 

"  '  Ha  !  thou  thrice  foolish  Knight  of  Alcan 
ta,'  said  the  Count  Rolfe,  scornfully,  '  didst 
thou  think  that  thou  alone  possessedst  the  key 
to  fairy  land  ?' 

"  Then  signing  to  a  grim  attendant  who  stood 
by  his  side,  the  man  let  fly  an  arrow  from  a 
steel  cross-bow.  The  weapon  sped  like  light 
ning  and  entered — not  the  breast  of  Alcanta, 
at  which  it  was  aimed — but  the  fair  bosom  of 


the  gentle  Hildegard,  who,  observing  the  foul 
intent,  had  sprung  impulsively  forward  to 
shield  the  knight  from  harm  ;  and  thus  fatally 
wounded,  the  maiden  sank  into  the  arms  of 
the  horror  stricken  knight. 

"  '  0,  Alcanta,  forgive  me ! — I  had  forgotten 
the  ring.  Do  thou — ' 

"Thus  saying  she  swooned  in  the  arms  of  the 
knight,  who  was  so  overwhelmed  with  sorrow 
that  he  heeded  not  the  stern  Count  Rolfe,  who 
passionately  called  upon  the  dying  girl,  and 
madly  sought  to  stay  the  crimson  life  tide. 

"'  Hildegard,  Hildegard,  my  daughter,  I  have 
slain  thee !' 

"  The  sweet  girl  unclosed  her  eyes  and  turn 
ed  them  on  the  half  distracted  count. 

"  '  Father,  weep  not,  I  freely  forgive  thee — 
only  promise  that  thou  wilt  ever  be  kind  to 
him !  And  now,  dear  Alcanta,  how  happy 
am  I  that  I  die  to  save  thee.  One  kiss  before 
1  leave  thee  in  death.' 

" '  Hildegard,  my  poor,  lost  Hildegard,' 
groaned  the  father,  in  despair. 

"  '  What  are  the  charmed  words,  dearest  one,' 
whispered  Alcanta,  '  tell  me,'  and  stooping 
down  he  bade  her  whisper  them. 

"  In  the  next  moment  he  had  repeated  them, 
and  taking  the  ring  desired  that  he  might  die 
with  Hildegard,  and  pressing  his  lips  fervently 
to  hers,  they  breathed  their  last  together,  clasp 
ed  in  each  other's  arms.  The  haughty  Count 
Rolfe  came  home  an  altered  man,  and  after 
wards  joined  the  crusades,  and  threw  away  his 
life  in  desperate  battle  on  the  sacred  fields  of 
Palestine,  among  the  knights  of  the  cross." 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 


THE    ESCAPE    FROM    PRISON. 


"  I  was  in  this  terrible  situation  when  the  basket  stopt." — ORIENTAL  TALES. 


"  Fore  heaven,  a  true  Rhine  legend,  and 
well  told,"  said  Karl  Blasius,  as  his  jailor  end 
ed  his  story. 

But  day  after  day  brought  no  change  to  the 
prisoner,  and  he  saw  no  hopes  either  of  escape 
or  of  being  released  from  the  miserable  life  that 
he  now  endured  by  the  penalty  of  the  law. — 
His  only  thoughts  seemed  now  to  be  of  her, 
the  fair  Lady  Gustine,  who  was  the  star  that 
might  have  guided  him,  under  different  cir 
cumstances,  from  the  crowd  of  evil  influences 
that  had  bound  him  from  his  youth. 

Brooding  over  his  hopeless  love,  and  per 
haps  not  insensible  to  the  promptings  of  con 
science,  he  grew  so  gloomy  and  melancholy 
that  he  no  longer  heeded  the  visits  of  the  jail 
or,  and,  indeed,  when  he  was  addressed,  often 
seemed  to  forget  to  answer  the  interrogatory. 

Observing  this  moody  and  harmless  state, 
which  seemed  of  late  to  be  ever  upon  him,  his 
keeper  at  last  removed  a  portion  of  the  heavy 
chains  that  weighed  him  down  to  the  floor  of 
the  cell,  and  thus  permitted  him  to  walk  back 
and  forth  its  entire  length,  and  he  could  even 
by  managing  to  climb  a  little,  reach  the  only 
aperture  through  which  light  and  air  was  ad 
mitted  to  his  prison  room,  a  small  window 
strongly  secured  with  iron  bars.  On  the  sup 


port  afforded  by  the  indenture  that  served  for 
the  window,  he  would  sit  for  hours  together, 
and  watch,  through  the  gratings,  the  passing 
of  the  crafts  that  navigated  the  river,  far,  far 
below  the  cliff  on  which  the  castle  was  built. 

Thus  occupied,  he  seemed  at  last  to  be 
once  more  brought  back  to  a  realizing  sense  of 
his  situation,  and  a  desire  once  more  to  enjny 
the  liberty  which  he  had  so  long  been  deprived 
of.  He  finally  resolved,  if  only  for  his  amuse 
ment,  to  saw  away  the  bars  that  confined  his 
window,  so  that  he  could  remove  them  and  re 
place  them  at  will,  though  in  proposing  to  do 
this,  he  could  hardly  be  said  even  to  entertain 
the  probability  of  its  aiding  in  his  escape  ;  the 
thing  did  not  seem  possible  even  with  the  best 
of  aids  and  instruments  for  the  purpose,  none 
of  which  he  possessed.  The  river  was  a  hun 
dred  feet  below  him,  at  the  base  of  the  rock 
on  which  the  castle  was  built,  and  there  was 
not  an  inch  of  room  or  ground  that  he  could 
see,  which  might  serve  as  a  foothold  between  his 
cell  and  the  river's  bed.  But  still  it  would 
amuse  him  to  try  the  experiment  upon  the 
bars,  and  so  he  worked  with  a  broken  link  of 
chain  that  he  found  in  his  cell,  and  by  con 
ducting  his  operations  at  the  right  time,  he  was 
unsuspected  by  his  keeper.  A  large  portion 


126 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


of  the  clear  moonlight  nights  was  thus  occu 
pied,  because  at  that  time  he  was  less  liable  to 
interruption,  and  finally  by  dint  of  an  immense 
amount  of  labor,  he  sawed  away  two  of  the 
cross  bars.  A  third  cost  him  more  labor  than 
the  other  two,  being  new  and  well  tempered, 
but  with  indomitable  perseverance  lie  still  work 
ed  on  until  even  that  at  last  yielded  to  his  ef 
forts,  and  he  was  then  enabled  to  take  them  all 
out  and  replace  them  again  at  will  in  a  mo 
ment  of  time. 

Since  the  bars  could  now  be  removed,  he  was 
enabled  to  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  window, 
which  he  was  careful  to  do  only  at  such  times 
as  he  was  most  sure  of  not  being  observed,  and 
thus  he  could  scan  the  entire  outside  of  his 
prison,  or  that  portion  fronting  the  river.  He 
found  that  this  side  had  been  deemed  suffi 
ciently  guarded  by  its  natural  situation,  and 
therefore  no  sentinel  was  posted  in  a  position 
to  overlook  it.  Having  noted  this  important 
fact,  he  carefully  scanned  the  face  of  the  rock, 
and  his  keen  eye  detected,  at  some  thirty-five 
or  forty  feet  below  his  window,  a  small, 
narrow  crevice  in  the  rock  large  enough  for  a 
foothold,  and  in  a  direct  line  below  his  cell. — 
He  considered  this  discovery  all-important,  and 
thought  upon  it  for  many  days,  until  at  last  he 
conceived  the  idea  of  making  a  rope  by  which 
he  might  descend  thus  far.  and  then  again  by 
means  of  the  same  rope  and  one  of  the  iron 
bars  placed  in  the  crevice  of  the  rock,  to  lower 
himself  down  to  the  bed  of  the  river  below. — 
He  had  of  late,  through  the  jailor's  kindness, 
been  allowed  a  rough,  coarse  bed  stuffed  with 
tow  to  lie  upon,  and  upon  this  tow  he  set  him 
self  to  work  most  industriously,  to  form  him 
self  a  strong  cord  or  rops. 

Days,  weeks,  and  even  months  passed  on  in 
the  unvarying  course  of  time,  and  still  the 
robber  chief  remained  in  his  cell,  apparently 
forgotten  by  the  world  without  his  prison  walls. 
But  not  a  moment  of  this  time  was  lost  by 
him ;  he  was  constantly  and  secretly  engaged 
upon  the  construction  of  his  rope,  with  which 
he  confidently  hoped  to  cheat  the  law,  and 
make  good  his  escape.  It  grew  in  his  hands 
but  slowly,  yet  it  did  increase  in  length  each 
day,  though  ever  so  little,  for  it  was  braided 
and  twisted  with  no  little  skill  and  strength. 
The  robber  knew  very  well  that  his  life 
might  depend  upon  its  power  to  safely  sustain 
his  weight,  and  that  the  least  flaw  or  weak 


spot  in  its  entire  construction,  might  cost  him 
his  life,  and  thus  prompted,  he  could  hardly  be 
too  particular.  At  last  his  rope  was  complet 
ed,  eked  out  and  strengthed  by  strips  taken 
from  the  under  binding  of  his  bedtick.  He 
had  just  carefully  surveyed  his  work  and  fair 
ly  concluded  that  it  was  completed,  so  far  as 
the  construction  of  the  rope  was  concerned, 
one  day,  when  he  heard  the  jailor  approaching 
his  cell  at  an  unusual  hour,  and  he  had  hardly 
time  to  secrete  his  rope  before  the  turnkey  en 
tered,  evidently  with  some  news  to  communi 
cate. 

"Well,  prisoner,"  said  he,  "  you  and  I  will 
probably  part  ere  long." 

" Indeed  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  how  soon  ?" 

"  Within  a  very  few  days,  I  should  judge," 
replied  the  jailor. 

"  How  so  ?"  asked  Karl,  while  he  secretly 
hoped  it  might  be  true,  though  perhaps  not  in 
the  way  the  jailor  expected. 

"  Why,  you  see,  the  grand  tribunal  have  at 
last  called  for  your  trial,  and  they  tell  me  to 
see  you  prepared  to  appear  before  them." 

"  They  have  taken  their  own  time  for  the 
trial,"  replied  the  robber. 

"  It  is  true  they  have  been  more  than  usual 
ly  forgetful  in  your  case." 

"  Still  I  am  obliged  to  them,"  said  the  rob 
ber,  half  smiling,  "since  it  has  given  me  a 
longer  period  to  live." 

"  Why,  yes,  that's  true,  for  every  one  knows 
you  are  sure  to  be  condemned,  and  when  that's 
the  case,  why  every  hour  of  such  delay  is 
just  so  much  clear  gain  to  the  prisoner,  ac 
cording  to  my  reckoning.  But  you  are  to  ap 
pear  before  the  judges  now,  and  therefore  if 
you  have  any  little  matters  that  you  wish  to 
arrange  before  you  die,  there  is  no  time  for 
further  delay." 

"  When  did  you  say  the  trial  is  to  take 
place  ?"  asked  the  robber,  with  a  coolness  that 
surprised  the  jailor. 

"  It  will  be  commenced  to-morrow,  I  sup 
pose,  as  you  are  ordered  to  be  then  brought 
before  them." 

"  So  soon  ?"  said  the  robber,  thoughtfully  ; 
"  well,  well,  perhaps  it  is  as  well." 

"  1  think  that  every  man,  let  his  crime  be 
what  it  may,  should  be  told  when  he  is  about 
to  be  cast  out  of  this  world,  and  therefore  I 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


127 


didn't  hesitate  to  tell  you  that  you  are  sure  to 
be  condemned,  and  must  be  prepared  for  it." 

"  I  expect  to  be  condemned,"  replied  Karl 
Blasius,  almost  indifferently. 

"  And  to  lose  your  head  within  a  week," 
added  the  turnkey. 

"  That  I  supposed  would  naturally  follow 
the  condemnation." 

"  If  the  court  do  not  object,  I  will  procure 
you  a  priest  before  the  last  day." 

"  Thank  you,  my  good  man,"  said  the  rob 
ber,  a  little  ironically. 

"  By-the-way,"  continued  the  turnkey,  "  you 
must  have  much  to  confess  that  lays  heavily 
on  yeur  soul ;  you  whose  life  has  been  spent 

arms  aga  inst  the  laws  and  your  fellow-men, 
and  whose  profession  has  been  that  of  a  rob 
ber." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  Karl  Blasius, 
coolly,  half  musing  to  himself.  "I  could,  it 
is  true,  confess  many  sins  of  my  own,  and 
many  too  of  other  people's,  of  those  high  in 
life,  high  in  office,  and  honored  by  the  peo 
ple." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say,"  continued  the 
jailor,  somewhat  eagerly,  "  that  you  can  im 
plicate  such  people  as  you  name  with  your 
own  crimes  ?  If  so,  such  a  disclosure  might 
possibly  lead  to  your  pardon,  as  an  evidence 
for  the  state." 

"Not  in  the  light  that  you  mean,"  said  the 
robber.  "  1  could  prove  them  guilty  of  worse 
things  than  a  wayside  robbery,  where  a  rich 
man's  purse  alone  is  lightened.  They  deal  in 
different  traffic,  and  steal  away  the  rights  of 
the  poor." 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  discuss  this  matter," 
replied  the  jailor,  whose  sympathies,  as  he  be 
longed  to  the  latter  class,  were  half  with  the 
robber.  "  But  remember  to-morrow,  at  the 
mid-day  hour,  when  I  shall  come  for  thee." 

The  robber  smiled  contemptuously  as  the 
turnkey  closed  and  locked  the  door  behind 
him,  and  being  satisfied  that  he  should  not 
again  be  disturbed  before  the  morrow,  he  com 
menced  openly  to  prosecute  his  design  rela 
tive  to  his  escape.  He  saw  that  there  was  no 
longer  time  for  delay,  and  that  if  he  would 
succeed  at  all,  the  attempt  must  be  made  that 
very  night,  as  to-morrow's  sun  might  light 
him  to  the  block.  His  time  had  come  for  ac 
tion,  and  he  was  prepared. 

The  rope  which  he  had  constructed  was 


seventy  feet  in  length,  for  he  had  reasoned 
well  that  it  was  better  it  should  be  too  long 
than  too  short,  as  in  the  latter  event  he  would 
be  placed  in  a  terrible  situation.  The  rope 
or  cord  was  now  uncoiled  from  the  inside  of 
his  bed,  and  arranged  beneath  his  cell  window 
for  immediate  use,  and  a  few  other  brief  pre 
liminary  arrangements  were  also  made.  As 
night  came  on,  he  was  enabled  to  make  a  cal 
culation  relative  to  the  moon,  which  showed 
him  that  it  would  leave  that  side  of  the  prison 
walls  in  shadow  before  midnight,  and  still  af 
ford  him  sufficient  light  to  consummate  his 
purpose. 

To  one  end  of  the  rope  he  now  attached  one 
of  the  loose  bars,  and  lowered  it  from  bis  win 
dow,  to  try  the  precise  distance  to  the  crevice 
in  the  ledge,  and  though  he  could  not  apparent 
ly  quite  reach  the  spot,  yet  he  calculated  that 
his  length  of  body  would  make  up  the  slight 
difference  when  added  to  the  rope,  and  thus 
enable  him  to  reach  it  in  safety.  This  dis 
tance,  of  course,  was  measured  hurriedly,  and 
with  only  one  half  length  of  the  rope,  it  being 
all  that  he  could  be  able  to  use  in  his  ascent, 
as  it  must  be  doubled  about  one  of  the  remain 
ing  bars  of  the  window,  that  he  might  be  en 
abled  to  draw  it  after  him  when  he  had  once 
reached  the  crevice,  inasmuch  as  from  that 
point  he  would  take  a  fresh  start  to  reach  the 
river's  bed  far  below,  and  this  must  be  done 
with  the  same  rope. 

He  had  just  unloosed  more  of  his  rope,  the 
better  to  sound  the  exact  distance  from  his 
window  to  the  ledge,  when  he  was  suddenly 
interrupted  by  the  approach  of  footsteps. — 
This  was  most  unfortunate  and  unexpected  to 
him  ;  his  rope  and  one  of  the  bars  of  the  win 
dow  were  on  the  outside,  and  he  had  only 
time  to  replace  the  other  two  bars  and  put 
matters  to  rights  on  the  cell  floor,  when  the 
door  opened  and  a  couple  of  judges  and  a 
clerk,  with  other  attendants,  entered.  J't  re 
quired  all  his  self-possession  to  prevent  him 
from  exposing  himself,  and  many  were  the 
fears  that  crossed  his  mind,  lest  the  missing 
bar  should  be  noticed.  After  certain  cere 
monies,  Karl  was  informed  that  the  necessary 
formula  of  a  trial  would  be  performed  in  his 
cell,  and  as  there  could  be  no  possible  doubt 
with  regard  to  his  guilt,  it  would  be  of  the 
briefest  character;  that  this  plan  had  been 
adopted  partly  to  avoid  unnecessary  publicity, 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


and  partly  to  prevent  the  excitement  that 
would  necessarily  attend  the  trial  of  so  noted 
a  criminal.  This  having  been  duly  signified 
to  him,  Karl  Blasius  was  then  formally  ar 
raigned  before  the  court,  and  asked  what  he 
had  to  say  for  himself. 

"  As  to  what  point  ?"  aslced  the  prisoner, 
standing  with  a  calm,  unconcerned  air  before 
them. 

"  Your  guilt,  or  innocence." 

"  I  am  guilty  of  what  you  charge  me  with." 

"  You  acknowledge  it  then  ?" 

«  Freely." 

"  Are  you  aware,  prisoner,  that  this  conces 
sion  leads  to  the  loss  of  your  life  ?"  asked  one 
of  the  judges,  in  surprise. 

"  Perfectly." 

"  This  will  save  much  time  and  trouble,  at 
any  rate,"  said  another. 

"  1  frankly  acknowledge  that  I  am  guilty, 
gentlemen,"  said  Karl  Blasius,  "  and  as  expe 
dition  seems  to  be  quite  an  object  with  you, 
this  plea  on  my  part,  I  conceive,  settles  the 
whole  business,  and  I  presume  there  is  no  fur 
ther  occasion  for  ceremony." 

After  a  moment's  consultation  among  them 
selves,  they  seemed  to  have  settled  the  affair 
to  their  entire  satisfaction,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments,  the  chief  judge,  turning  to  the  prison 
er,  said : 

"  It  is  enough ;  you  are  found  guilty,  and 
are  sentenced  to  be  beheaded  this  day  week, 
at  sun  rise." 

"  This  day  week,  at  sun  rise,"  repeated  the 
clerk,  entering  the  sentence  upon  the  records. 

"  Prisoner,  we  commend  you  to  God,"  said 
the  judges,  as  they  withdrew  from  the  cell. 

Again  was  the  robber  left  alone  to  consum 
mate  his  plans  of  escape.  Congratulating 
himself  on  the  fact  that  he  had  not  been  de 
tected,  notwithstanding  the  missing  bar  from 
the  window,  he  once  more  turned  his  atten 
tion  to  the  object  which  had  so  long  engaged 
him.  Having  at  last  completed  his  arrange 
ments,  at  about  midnight  he  prepared  to  put 
his  plan  into  operation.  He  passed  his  rope 
of  tow,  ticking  and  other  materials,  around 
one  of  the  permanent  bars  within  the  window, 
and  with  one  of  the  loose  bars  attached  to  the 
two  ends,  lowered  them  down  to  the  extent  of 
the  rope,  and  then,  after  examining  himself, 
the  rope,  and  taking  all  the  precautions  that 
suggested  themselves  to  his  mind,  he  cau 


tiously  hung  himself  out  upon  the  rope  by  his 
hand,  and  commenced  slowly  to  descend  ! 

His  peculiar  manner  of  life  had  often  ac 
customed  him  to  situations  of  imminent  peril, 
and  he  had  looked  death  in  the  face  unblanch- 
ed  an  hundred  times,  but  he  had  been  poorly 
fed  in  prison  ;  he  had  been  shut  out  from  the 
air  of  heaven,  to  breathe  the  dampness  of  a 
dungeon  ;  his  limbs  had  been  weighed  down 
a  large  portion  of  the  time  by  heavy  irons, 
and  his  physical  powers  had  thus  been  weak 
ened.  He  was  not  so  strong  as  of  yore,  and 
therefore  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  his 
heart  should  beat  so  quickly,  and  that  his  breath 
should  come  and  go  so  rapidly,  while  he  was 
suspended  in  this  truly  perilous  situation.  He 
scarcely  dared  to  look  below  him,  lest  he  should 
become  dizzy  and  fall. 

There  was,  of  course,  no  chance  for  footing 
of  any  kind ;  indeed  soon  after  leaving  the 
window,  he  passed  the  foundation  of  the  castle 
walls,  and  after  that  the  rock  receded  slightly, 
so  that  he  hung  clear  from  it  altogether,  and 
descended  by  the  strength  of  his  arms  alone, 
without  even  his  feet  to  guide  him,  in  his 
downward  course.  It  is  a  most  fearful  sensa 
tion  that  of  a  descent  in  the  dark,  and  more 
especially  with  but  uncertain  aim,  and  the 
chance  of  instant  destruction  ever  before  you. 
But  the  robber  had  summoned  all  his  courage, 
and  still  he  descended  steadily,  watching  for 
the  foothold  that  he  had  so  carefully  noted 
from  above.  Though  he  feels  much  weaker 
than  when  he  left  the  window,  yet  hope  still 
nerves  his  arm,  and  he  holds  fast  to  the  rope. 

Now  he  pauses,  and  holds  his  way  for  a 
single  moment.  Was  that  an  alarm  that  he 
heard  above  him,  or  merely  the  challenge  of 
the  sentinels,  as  they  relieved  the  midnight 
guard  ?  Yes,  that  must  be  it,  and  still  down 
ward  he  goes  slowly  and  carefully. 

Now  he  finds,  by  the  motion  of  the  rope, 
that  he  must  be  fast  approaching  its  end,  and 
again  he  looks  eagerly  for  the  crevice,  but  he 
cannot  discover  it,  until  at  length  he  has 
reached  the  very  extent  of  the  rope,  and  the 
spot  that  to  his  eye  had  seemed  so  near  from 
above,  now  proves  to  be  still  far  below  him  ! 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  To  go  back  over  the 
rope,  was  a  feat  that  none  but  the  most  expert 
performer  of  legerdemain  could  have  done, 
and  yet  with  the  awful  prospect  of  destruc 
tion  before  him,  the  robber  attempted  it. 


The  next  number  of  this  work  will     be  issued  on  Saturday,  May  ISth. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


CHAPTER  XXIIL— [CONTINUED.] 


He  could  not  however  raise  himself  eren  one 
hand  above  the  other.  His  natural  strength 
would  not  here  suffice  for  the  performance  of 
the  feat,  as  we  have  said,  he  was  very 
much  weakened  by  hardship. 

What  an  age  he  lived,  in  every  moment  he 
hung  there,  upon  the  side  of  the  naked  rock  ! 

His  mind,  with  that  strange  vividness  that 
it  assumes  in  moments  of  danger,  seemed  to 
comprehend  with  the  utmost  minuteness  every 
detail  of  th'e  entire  course  of  his  eventful 
life.  He  thought  of  the  terrible  fate  that 
must  instantly  be  his,  if  he  should  let  go  his 
hold,  yet  he  knew  full  well  that  he  could  not 
long  remain  thus.  Then  his  active  mind  even 
went  through  with  a  series  of  speculations  as 
to  what  the  jailor  and  the  judges  would  think 
had  become  of  him,  the  surprise  that  would 
suffuse  their  countenances,  when  they  found 
the  rope  and  the  iron  bars ;  and  then  he  won 
dered  whether  he  would  die  before  he  reached 
the  water,  by  dashing  his  brains  out  against 
the  rocks,  or  whether  he  should  become  in 
sensible  from  suffocation  in  descending  so 
quickly. 

"  O,  God  !  "  groaned  he,  with  the  agony  of 
pain  that  thrilled  through  his  arms  as  he  hung 
thus  reflecting. 

Then  he  speculated,  during  this  lightning- 
like  operation  of  his  thoughts,  as  to  whether 


a  minute  account  of  his  attempt  to  escape 
would  ever  reach  the  ears  of  the  lady  Gus- 
tine,  and  what  she  would  say  and  think  of 
him  when  she  heard  of  his  tragical  death  ; 
and  soon  a  shade  of  envy  found  place,  as  he 
compared  his  own  situation  with  regard  to  the 
lady,  with  that  of  Robert  Stanley. 

All  this  flood  of  thoughts,  and  their  elabo 
rate  threads  and  divergings,  were  the  impres 
sions  of  little  more  than  an  instant ! 

His  wrists  seemed  to  become  numb  and 
senseless,  or  rather  he  could  experience  only 
a  prickling  sensation  in  them.  One  by  one  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  cords  and  sinews 
snapped  and  gave  way,  until  his  left  hand  un 
loosed  its  hold,  and  he  hung  by  the  fingers  of 
his  right  hand  only,  which  seemed  to  retain 
their  grasp  more  by  a  spasmodic  effort  than 
from  any  power  of  the  will.  He  had  now  no 
control  over  them,  he  even  thought  that  he 
could  not  let  go  if  he  wished  to  do  so ! 

Once  more  he  groaned  audibly  and  called 
upon  his  Maker ! 

Karl  Blasius  felt  that  his  hour  had  at  last 
come  indeed ;  that  the  end  of  his  earthly  ca 
reer,  with  all  his  sins  unshrired,  was  upon 
him.  He  tried  to  utter  a  brief  prayer,  but  his 
tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth  ;  he  tried 
to  utter  a  cry  of  pain,  for  anything  would 


132 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


have  been  a  relief  to  him,  but  he  had  no  long 
er  the  power  of  utterance  left  him. 

At  last  his  brain  began  to  reel,  and  he  lost 
the  command  of  his  reasoning  faculties.  It 
was  a  happy  moment  for  him,  for  all  con 
sciousness  was  instantly  gone,  and  he  burst 
forth  into  an  involuntary,  idiotic  laugh  ! 

As  that  hoarse,  deep  laugh  rang  out  upon 
the  night  air,  the  sinews  of  hjs  right  hand 
unloosed  their  tension,  and  the  robber  fell 
headlong  through  the  air.  Down,  down  he 
went,  all  unconscious,  but  with  the  speed  al 
most  of  lightning  itself,  until  without  striking 
the  rock  at  all,  he  fell  into  the  swift  running 
water,  and  disappeared  at  once  beneath  its 
surface.  For  a  moment  they  closed  over  him, 
but  with  the  rising  bubbles  of  air,  his  body 
came  once  more  to  the  surface.  But  as  he 
remained  inactive  and  unconscious,  again  he 
disappeared,  swept  by  the  current  down 
stream  to  some  distance  below  the  base  of  the 
rock,  upon  whose  crowning  height  stood  the 
castle  that  had  so  long  been  his  prison. 

The  sharp  chill  of  the  water,  and  the  se 
cond  immersion  beneath  its  surface,  seemed  to 
revive  the  robber  to  a  degree  of  partial  con 
sciousness,  and  fortunate  was  it  for  him  that 
he  had  fainted  when  he  fet  go  his  hold  upon 
the  rope,  for  had  he  commenced  that  rapid 
descent  with  full  consciousness,  the  immedi 
ate  effect  must  have  been  strangulation.  As 
it  was,  he  now  seemed  most  miraculously  to 
breathe  again  ;  and  after  looking  in  half  con-' 
sciousness  about  him  for  a  moment,  made  the 
natural  efforts  of  a  person  who  had  once  been 
taught  to  swim,  to  sustain  himself  upon  the 
surface,  and  even  struck  out  with  his  limbs, 
though  very  feebly,  yet  with  sufficient  strength 
to  keep  him  afloat. 

So  weak  was  the  body,  that  even  these  ef 
forts  were  every  other  moment  retarded,  nor 


renewed  until  he  found  himself  sinking  again, 
when  it  would  seem  to  rouse  him  to  a  mo 
ment's  fresh  exertion.  But  though  the  rob 
ber's  bodily  strength  was  so  nearly  exhausted, 
yet,  strange  to  say,  his  mental  faculties  seemed 
to  have  recovered  again  from  the  shock  they 
had  received,  and  his  brain,  with  a  strange 
pertinacity,  was  again  busy  in  its  almost  mi 
raculous  comprehensiveness,  once  more  rush 
ing  with  the  speed  of  light,  over  the  broad 
world  of  imagination  and  thought.  At  one 
mental  flash,  as  it  were,  he  canvassed  the 
fearful  scene  and  trial  that  he  had  but  just 
passed  through,  and  even  then,  as  he  lay  half 
immersed  in  the  river,  with  present  danger 
staring  him  in  the  face,  he  shuddered  as  he 
recalled  his  last  moments  of  consciousness 
while  he  hung  suspended  upon  the  rope  by  a 
single  hand. 

He  fully  realized  the  complete  weakness 
of  his  body,  and  reasoned  as  to  whether  it  was 
best  to  guide  himself  to  the  shore,  or  whether 
to  float  on  still  further.  In  the  first  instance 
he  would  gain  rest  and  strength  at  once,  but 
run  a  fearful  risk  of  being  discovered  and  re 
taken  before  he  would  be  able  to  make  any 
very  strenuous  effort  to  escape  from  the  neigh 
borhood  ;  whereas  every  moment  that  passed 
over  him  now,  served  to  place  him  further  and 
further  from  the  hated  vacuity  of  his  late 
place  of  confinement.  Had  it  not  been  for 
the  swiftness  of  the  current  which  gives  any 
body  floating  upon  its  surface  additional  buoy 
ancy,  he  could  hardly  have  been  able  to  sus 
tain  himself  by  so  slight  an  exertion  of 
strength ;  but  this  was  greatly  in  his  favor, 
and  as  he  thus  gasped  and  feebly  struck  out 
with  his  hands,  he  was  sweeping  swiftly  and 
steadily  on  towards  the  bosom  of  the  German 
Ocean. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 


BILL    THE    BOLD. 

The  contrast  of  the  hardened  and  mature, 

The  calm  brow  brooding  o'er  the  project  dark, 

With  the  clean,  loving  heart,  and  spirit  pure 
Of  youth— I  love— yet,  hating,  love  to  mark  !— H.  FLETCHER. 


THE  reader  must  come  with  us  now  to  the 
tap-room  of  St.  Giles,  where  we  first  introduc 
ed  him  to  the  prominent  characters  of  our 
story.  It  is  about  a  month  prior  to  the  night 
in  which  the  melee  occurred,  when  Sir  Rob 
ert  Brompton  and  Walter  Manning  rescued 
their  young  protegee  from  the  vile  den  of 
thieves  and  assassins.  The  appearance  of 
the  room  and  its  usual  belongings,  are  the 
same  as  we  have  before  described.  A  motley 
oroup  are  gathered  about  one  of  the  side  ta 
bles,  whereon  are  placed  glasses  and  decan 
ters,  either  filled  or  partially  so,  with  the  mis 
erable  liquor  which  such  a  place  might  be  sup 
posed  to  afford,  while  the  apartment  is  filled 
with  clouds  of  srrfoke  and  the  dense  fumes  of 
tobacco. 

Mother  Giles,  as  the  frequenters  of  this 
vile  rendezvous  had  nick-named  the  woman 
who  acted  the  hostess  here,  was  in  her  usual 
place  behind  the  bar.  On  some  convivial  oc 
casion,  it  was  declared  that  she  was  the  pre 
siding  goddess  of  the  district,  and  ever  after 
she  was  known  by  the  euphonious  title  of 
Mother  Giles.  There  she  was  behind  the 
rough  counter,  with  her  blackened  pipe  in  her 
mouth,  and  her  cunning,  watchful  eye,  so  gray 
and  small,  taking  in  at  a  glance  the  entire 
company,  though  ostensibly  she  was  most 


quietly  awaiting  her  customers'  wishes.  The 
scene,  if  minutely  described,  would  not  vary 
much  from  that  of  a  subsequent  night,  with 
which  the  reader  is  already  familiar,  save  that 
one  of  the  present  company  seemed  to  be  a 
new  comer,  and  over  his  arrival  the  rest  were 
drinking  and  making  merry  with  song  and 
jest. 

Some  ten  or  a  dozen  individuals  sat  at  the 
largest  table  that  the  room  afforded,  embracing 
in  their  number  as  hard  and  villanous  a  look 
ing  set  of  characters  as  could  well  be  found  in 
the  same  number  of  persons ;  such  a  hideous 
array  of  countenances,  any  one  of  which 
would  have  graced  a  frontispiece  for  the  New 
gate  Calender!  But  he  who  seemed  to  be 
the  guest  of  the  occasion,  deserves  more  than 
a  passing  notice  from  us  in  this  place.  He 
was  a  man  of  the  ordinary  height,  rather 
thick  set,  and  of  some  thirty-five  or  forty 
years  of  age.  He  must  have  been  handsome 
once,  for  there  was  still  a  high  commanding 
forehead,  a  fine  expressive  eye,  spite  of  the 
ravages  of  intemperance  and  of  physical  neg 
lect,  and  there  was  a  curling  of  the  lip  anoa 
half-contemptuous  expression  often  upon  his 
face,  that  seemed  to  show  that  he  scorned  the 
grovelling  spirits  about  him,  and  yet  he  was 
convivial  and  most  sociable  with  every  one. 


134 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


His  companions  were  supplying  him  freely 
with  the  contents  of  the  bottle,  and  its  effects 
were  already  somewhat  apparent  in  the  glib- 
ness  of  his  tongue,  and  an  animation  and  life 
that  were  very  evidently  forced  and  unnat 
ural. 

"  Here's  a  health  to  Mother  Giles,"  said 
one  of  the  company,  challenging  the  rest. 

"  Mother  Giles,"  echoed  a  dozen  voices, 
while  they  tossed  off  their  drink. 

"  Mother  Giles,"  said  the  guest,  emptying 
his  glass  of  the  contents. 

"  Come,  on  with  your  story,  comrade,"  said 
one  who  sat  near  him. 

"  Yes,  on  with  the  story,"  chimed  in  a  half- 
dozen  voices,  eagerly. 

"  Ay,  ay,  let  me  see,  where  was  I  last  ?"  he 
asked,  musing. 

"  In  the  Caribbean  Sea  with  Montbars  and 
Red  Rupert,"  said  one. 

"  Ah  !  true.  Well,  they  were  brave  men, 
both  of  them,  comrades,  though  Rupert,  who 
was  Montbars'  lieutenant,  soon  outstripped 
his  leader,  and  sailed  the  finest  craft  that  ever 
floated  in  the  Spanish  Indies. 

"Well,  I  shipped  with  him  and  a  bloody 
time  we  had  of  it,  for  Red  Rupert  was  half  an 
Indian  by  blood,  and  the  fellow  thought  no 
more  of  taking  the  lives  of  half  a  dozen  Span 
iards,  than  I  should  of  drinking  as  many 
glasses  of  wine.  His  father  was  a  Spanish 
governor  somewhere  on  the  Isthmus,  and  had 
made  love  to  his  mother,  a  Darien  princess, 
whom  he  afterwards  deserted,  but  the  woman 
brought  up  her  son  after  the  real  Indian  fash 
ion,  to  hate  and  revenge,  and  a  bitter  enemy 
he  proved  to  the  Spaniards,  when  he  did  grow 
tip ;  he  killed  for  revenge,  but  the  rest  of  us 
fought  for  gold  and  booty.  It  wasn't  very 
often  that  he  would  attack  any  other  ves 
sel  but  the  Spaniards,  but  their  galleons  once 
in  sight,  he  never  let  them  escape  him.  It's 
rather  queer,  messmates,  for  after  all,  he  was 
in  love  with  a  Spanish  girl  all  the  while,  and 
I  believe  he  give  up  to  go  and  marry  her,  and 
live  quietly  on  shore  together." 

"  Sich  is  love,"  gulped  out  one  of  the  half- 
drunken  company,  with  a  silly  leer. 

"Red  Rupert  was  a  generous  and  noble 
chap,  and  we  all  loved  him,  and  when  we 
parted,  we  left  the  clipper  craft,  the  Darien, 
with  our  pockets  lined  with  gold,  and  our 
hearts  full  of  regret  at  giving  up  such  profit 


able  service,  under  such  a  brave  captain.  A 
party  of  us,  tired  of  this  exposed  and  danger 
ous  life,  shipped  from  St.  Domingo  for  Havre, 
and  from  thence  I  went  up  to  Paris  at  once, 
where  I  soon  lost  myself,  as  you  may  be  assur 
ed,  in  the  vortex  of  fun,  rascality  and  busi 
ness,  of  the  French  capital. 

"  Well,  comrade,  how  came  you  to  leave 
there  ?"  asked  one  of  the  party,  knocking  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe,  while  the  whole  party 
prepared  to  fill  their  glasses  for  another  dram. 

"  You  can  easily  guess,  if  you  have  a  mind 
to,"  replied  the  new  comer,  with  a  sarcastic 
smile  upon  his  features,  as  he  took  up  a  farth 
ing  candle,  and  drew  the  blaze  into  his  pipe  to 
light  the  tobacco. 

"Probably  induced  by  a  desire  to  travel," 
suggested  one,  humorously. 

"  Or  you  came  over  to  look  after  a  large  for 
tune  that  had  been  left  you  by  a  deceased 
aunt,"  suggested  another. 

"  A  dead  aunt !  Gammon !"  said  another, 
too  much  intoxicated  to  take  the  idea  as  it  was 
intended. 

"  You  are  right,"  replied  the  new  comer, 
without  noticing  the  last  speaker,  "  I  came 
over  to  look  for  a  fortune,  that's  it." 

"  Give  us  some  hot  water  here,  Mother 
Giles,  to  make  the  liquor  taste  a  little  stronger, 
it's  had  enough  cold  put  into  it  already,  eh, 
old  skinflint  ?"  This  came  from  one  who  had 
not  before  spoken. 

"  Ay,  some  hot  water,"  said  two  or  three, 
"  give  us  some  hot  water." 

"  In  a  moment,  gentlemen,  in  a  moment," 
replied  the  woman,  "  but  as  to  the  strength  of 
the  liquor,  let  me  tell  you  that  it's  very  strange 
you  have  not  found  out  that  it  is  weak,  before. 
I  say  that  it  is  the  best." 

"  Shut  up,  old  crone,'  we  can't  have  any 
preaching  here,"  said  one,  who  seemed  to  com 
mand  some  respect  among  his  fellows;  "give 
us  the  water,  that's  all  we  want  of  you." 

Thus  appealed  to,  the  matron  of  the  estab 
lishment  gave  the  necessary  orders  for  the  ar 
ticle,  through  a  side  door,  without  leaving  her 
position,  and  soon  after,  while  the  party  were 
indulging  in  a  low,  bacchanalian  song,  the  wa 
ter  was  brought  in  by  Edith,  and  placed  be 
fore  them  in  a  steaming  pitcher.  He  who  had 
been  telling  his  story  as  the  guest  of  the  party, 
turned  round  at  the  same  moment  to  help 
himself  to  a  portion  of  the  water  to  add  to  his 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


135 


glass  of  gin,  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  girl. 
The  glass  he  held  fell  instantly  to  the  earth, 
and  the  liquor  was  spilled  upon  the  persons  of 
his  companions,  while  amazement  seemed 
wholly  to  possess  him.  Half  rising  in  his 
seat,  he  seemed  struck  as  though  he  had  be 
held  a  spirit ;  he  gazed  earnestly  and  trembled 
with  excitement,  yet  he  did  not  utter  one  sylla 
ble  in  explanation  of  his  strange  conduct. 
Edith,  wondering  at  the  manner  in  which  he 
regarded  her,  after  a  moment's  pause,  return 
ed  to  the  back  room,  presuming  the  man  to 
have  become  mad  with  liquor. 

His  companions  hardly  knew  what  to  make 
of  his  strange  conduct. 

"  Bill,  what  in  the  name  of  reason  has 
started  youx  so  ?"  asked  the  person  sitting  near 
est  to  him.  "  Eh,  my  boy,  does  the  sight  of 
a  petticoat  always  affect  you  in  that  queer 
fashion  ?" 

"  Who  is  that  girl  ?"  he  asked  with  a  long 
drawn  breath,  as  though  he  had  not  dared  to 
breathe  before,  and  still  keeping  his  eyes  bent 
upon  the  doorat  which  Edith  had  disappeared. 

"  Who  is  she  ?"  replied  one  of  the  revellers 
close  by  his  side,  while  he  turned  an  intelli 
gent  look  at  the  others.  "  Why  that  is  Edith 
Giles,  Mother  Giles'  youngest  /" 

"  She  was  so  very,  very  like,  that  it  brought 
the  old  feeling  over  me  again,  most  strangely," 
said  the  new  comer,  sadly,  and  half  musing  to 
himself,  as  he  sat  down  once  more  to  the  table 
with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"  O,  you've  been  in  love,  old  chap,  you 
didn't  tell  us  of  that,"  said  one  of  the  party 
opposite  to  him. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  half  a  dozen  at  once, 
"  give  us  the  love  story." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  the  new  companion, 
"  on  this  point  you  must  excuse  me." 

"  No  excuse,  no  excuse,  let  us  have  the  love 
story,"  said  the  merry  party,  all  of  whom 
were  more  or  less  overcome  by  the  spirit  which 
they  had  drunk,  and  which  the  hot  water  was 
fast  sending  into  their  heads. 

There  was  a  few  moments'  pause  after  this 
boisterous  call,  during  which  time  the  new 
comer  seemed  to  be  gathering  his  thoughts,  and 
recalling  the  records  of  memory  from  dates 
long  since  passed  away. 

"  There  are  moments,  comrades,"  he  said, 
with  a  stern  and  manly  expression  on  his  face, 
"  in  the  lives  of  us  all,  abandoned  and  wretch 


ed  as  we  are,  which  should  be  held  sacred,  re 
lating  to  circumstances  which  are  recurred  to 
only  in  our  lonely  moments,  when  we  find 
time  to  commune  with  our  own  hearts.  You 
understand  me.  I  cannot  speak  upon  the  sub 
ject  to  which  you  refer." 

As  he  said  this,  his  head  sank  upon  his 
breast,  and  he  seemed  for  some  moments  com 
pletely  lost  in  the  memories  of  the  past,  until 
the  jeer  of  a  neighboring  companion  aroused 
him,  and  raising  his  eyes  and  finding  himself 
the  object  of  universal  observation  and  remark, 
he  arouse'd  himself,  and  called  loudly  and  with 
forced  spirits  upon  Mother  Giles  for  a  fresh 
bottle  of  gin. 

Leaving  his  companions  for  a  moment,  the 
new  comer  addressed  a  few  words  to  the  wo 
man  in  an  undertone,  the  matter  of  which  evi 
dently  related  to  the  girl.  But  it  was  very 
evident  from  his  manner,  that  the  information 
elicited  from  her  was  of  no  satisfactory  char 
acter,  for  he  came  back  to  his  seat  at  the  table 
still  more  dejected  than  before,  and  thus  moody 
and  unsociable,  he  threw  himself  down  again 
among  his  companions.  But  the  party  had  no 
idea  of  permitting  their  guest  thus  to  be  ab 
sorbed  in  melancholy  on  his  own  private  affairs. 
They  were  convened  for  his  sake,  and  deter 
mined  to  enjoy  him. 

"  Why,  look  ye,  Bill,"  said  one  of  the  party, 
"  what  sort  of  a  cud  are  you  chewing?" 

"  Has  the  girl  bewitched  ye  ?"  asked  ano 
ther,  close  by  his  side, 

"  We  shall  have  to  walk  him  out  and  show 
him  some  of  our  London  girls,"  said  another. 

"  Gentlemen,  spare  me,"  said  their  guest, 
arousing  from  his  reverie. 

"  Drink  then,"  said  his  nearest  neighbor, 
challeiging  him  in  a  glass. 

"  Certainly,  let  us  all  drink,  gentlemen,"  he 
added,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word. 

Thus  thoroughly  aroused  once  more  by  the 
jeers  of  his  companions,  he  resorted  again  and 
again  to  the  bottle,  until  after  frequent  liba- 
tiqns,  and  deep  draughts  of  the  vile  compound, 
the  vacant  eye  and  inarticulate  utterance  b> 
trayed  the  state  of  intoxication  to  be  quite 
complete  with  most  of  the  party.  And  finally, 
arnid  half  formed  jokes  and  unfinished  stories, 
one  by  one,  they  dropped  off  their  seats  in  a 
state  of  insensibility,  until  the  last  one  was 
lost  in  oblivion,  and  lay  with  the  rest. 

It  was  now  long  past  midnight,  and  save  the 


136 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


heavy  breathing  of  the   revellers,  all  was  si 
lent. 

Then  it  was  that  the  character  of  the  wo 
man  who  had  remained  thus  patiently  at  her 
post,  behind   the  bar,  fully   displayed    itself. 
Coming  out  from  her  professional  box,  she  cau 
tiously  surveyed  the  drunken   group  to  make 
sure  that  all  were  soundly  asleep,  and  then 
gathered  the  glasses  arid  decanters  carefully 
together,  and  put  each  in  its  appropriate  place, 
then  extinguishing  all  but  a  single  lamp,  she 
proceeded  with  a  quietness  and  dexterity  that 
betrayed  her  long  practice,   to   examine  the 
pockets   of   her   customers,   who    were    now 
neither  in  a  state  to  realize  this  liberty,  nor  re 
sist  the  perpetrator  of  it.     They  were  not  of 
a  class  likely  to  have  much  money  about  their 
persons.     In  most  of  their  pockets  she  found 
nothing,  some  afforded  her  a  few  shillings  and 
others  only  a  few  pennies,  but  all  were  eagerly 
appropriated  by  the  old  woman.     When  she 
came  to  the  stranger,  he  who  had  been  the 
guest  of  the  party  that  night,  she  evinced 
more  than  ordinary  curiosity,  and  on  empty 
ing  his  pocket,  she  found  a  sovereign.     How 
her  little  trembling  gray  eyes  glistened  at  the 
sight  of  the  gold,  how  her  hands  trembled  as 
she  thrust  it  into  her  pocket,  starting  as  she 
did  so  at  some  slight  sound  and  at  a  slight 
movement  of  the  sleeper  himself,  who  seemed 
to  be  aware  of  some  disturbance  to  his  sottish 
slumber.     But  he  did  not  awake,  and  the  wo- 
man  moved  on,  not  permitting  even  the  mean 
est  of  her  guests  to  escape  her  pilfering  search. 
This  'villany  being  at   last   consummated, 
the  woman  deliberately  counted  over  her  spoils 
upon  the  counter,  and  then  tied  the  mcney  up 
in  a  calico  bag  and  replaced  it  in  her  pocket, 
after  which  she  retired  into  the  back  part  of 
the  dilapidated  building,  and  after  soundly  up 
braiding  Edith,  whom  she  found  asleep  in  a 
chair,  she  bade  her  go  to  bed,  in  a  harsn,  un 
feeling  tone. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  the  child,  submis 
sively,  as  she  prepared  to  obey  this  direction. 
"  And  look  here,  girl,"  said  the  woman. 
"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  When  people  look  at  you  in  the  bar-room, 
don't  you  stand  gazin'  at  'em  back  agin,  but 
you  just  come  in  here  where  you  belong.    Do 
you  understand  that  ?" 
"  Yes,  ma'am." 


"  Now  make  haste  and  go  to  bed,  or  you 
wont  be  good  for  anything  in  the  morning." 

Go  to  bed  indeed  !  You  should  have  seen 
the  process  this  woman  denominated  "  going 
to  bed."  Edith  opened  a  sort  of  closet  or  ash 
hole  on  one  side  of  the  cheerless  fire-place, 
and  scraping  out  a  few  handsful  of  straw, 
gathered  them  in  a  small  heap  in  one  corner 
of  the  room,  and  placing  an  old,  tattered  gar 
ment — that  must  once  have  been  a  man's 
overcoat — upon  the  straw,  wound  herself  up 
in  it,  and  getting  as  nearly  as  possible  to  the 
wall,  fell  at  once  into  a"  sleep  so  quiet  and  mo 
tionless  that  you  could  have  envied  her  in 
your  heart,  her  forgetfulness,  and  the  sweet 
innocence  that  could  sleep  so  soundly  on  such 
abed. 

The  woman  returned,  after  she  had  passed 
through  this  back  room  twice  to  satisfy  herself 
that  she  had  secured  everything  under  lock 
and  key  in  her  bar  room,  and  the  last  time 
came  and  held  the  lamp  close  to  Edith's  face, 
seeming  half  vexed  that  the  child  had  so 
quickly  gone  to  sleep.  There  was  a  large  cat 
that  came  over  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
fire-place,  after  the  woman  had  gone  out  for 
the  last  time,  and  her  steps  told  that  she  had 
really  gone  to  her  chamber,  and  nestling  close 
to  Edith's  side,  she  rubbed  her  cold  nose 
against  the  sleeper's  hand  to  attract  her  atten 
tion.  There  was  no  lamp  burning,  and  the 
dying  embers  upon  the  hearth  gave  but  a  sick 
ly  light  through  the  room.  The  animal  half 
awoke  the  lone  child,  who  aroused  sufficiently 
to  throw  her  arms  about  the  dumb  creature, 
which  expressed  its  delight  by  purring  soberly, 
and  thus  both  were  soon  asleep  together. 

Such  were  some  of  the  scenes  of  Edith's 
life,  and  such  the  lot  she  shared  previous  to 
the  eventful  night  which  is  described  in  the 
opening  chapter  of  this  story,  when  Sir  Rob 
ert  Brompton  rescued  and  adopted  her. 

As  days  passed  on,  the  new  comer,  who 
was  known  among  his  comrades  as  Bill  the 
Bold,  though  the  appellation  was  not  always 
added  by  his  comrades,  became  a  constant  vis- 
iter  and  patron  of  Mother  Giles  and  the  tap 
room,  and  though  he  patronized  the  bar  libe 
rally,  and  always  paid  for  what  he  called  for, 
yet  he  was  never  again  found  in  the  beastly 
ondition  which  completed  his  first  night's: 
carousal  there.  The  fact  was,  on  the  night 
referred  to,  he  had  become  much  excited,  some 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


137 


inward  devil  spurred  him  forward,  and  drove 
him x  to  seek  forgetfulness  in  the  fiery  stimu 
lus,  and  he  had  departed  from  his  usual  cus 
tom  in  relation  to  drink. 

He  seemed  to  be  much  engrossed  in  Edith, 
not  that  he  said  much  to  her  or  of  her,  to  any 
one  else,  but  yet  he  watched  her  constantly 
whenever  she  was  present,  and  on  such  occa 
sions,  his  CLM.panions  found  it  was  not  to  their 
advantage  to  disturb  the  train  of  thoughts  that 
seemed  to  possess  his  brain.  Once  or  twice 
he  gave  Edith  some  article  of  comfortable  clo 
thing  that  she  obviously  needed,  but  he  made 
her  no  other  gifts,  and  the  child,  though  she 
came  to  know  him  as  the  boldest  of  all  the 
villains  who  made  the  tap  room  their  head 
quarters,  yet  rather  counted  him  as  her  friend, 
for  he  had  shown  her  some  tokens  of  real 
kindness,  a  rarity  to  her  in  the  lone  and  for 
lorn  situation  that  she  filled  at  this  den  of 

wickedness. 

It  was  very  evident  that  he  whom  they  call 
ed  Bill,  had  discovered  in  the  features  of 
Edith  a  most  striking  resemblance  to  some 
loved  object,  or  some  individual  that  had  been 
connected  with  some  strange  vicissitude  of  his 
former  life,  or  at  least  this  was  the  conclusion 
that  the  frequenters  of  the  place  had  long  since 
arrived  at.  He  did  not  affect  to  love  the  child, 
but  there  seemed  to  be  something  that  drew 
him  to  wards  her,  much  like  the  operation  which 
naturalists  describe  as  occurring  between  a  ser 
pent  and  a  dove,  when  the  latter  is  drawn  to 
wards  the  former  by  the  operation  of  a  charm. 
Yet  Edith  affected  him  not,  any  further  than 
in  thankfulness  for  the  favors  she  had  received 
at  his  hands. 

There  w#s  one  unfortunate  result  of  this 
kindness  on  the  part  of  Bill  the  Bold  to  Edith, 
for  it  seemed  in  some  way  to  excite  the  ire  of 
Mother  Giles  who  could  not  bear  to  see  the 
child  treated  kindly,  or  the  object  of  the  least 
consideration.  But  Bill  himself  had  discov-  ' 


ered  this,  and  one  day  told  the  woman  if  he 
ever  knew  of  her  ill  treating  Edith,  he  would 
just  as  soon  blow  her  brains  out  as  he  would 
drink  a  glass  of  her  liquor,  and  the  woman 
knowing  his  character,  obeyed  him  in  good 
earnest. 

One  evening  a  frequenter  of  the  tap-room, 
excited  perhaps  by  bad  liquor,  offered  her  some 
slight  insult  on  her  entering  the  room  to  serve 
some  of  the  party,  and  although  this  person 
was  a  large,  stout  desperado,  and  a  bully 
withal,  he  lay  flat  upon  his  back  in  the  next 
instant,  by  a  blow  from  him  known  as  Bill  the 
Bold,  who  scornfully  said  : 

"  You  must  be  a  brave  man  to  insult  a  child 
like  that.  You  are  slightly  punished  this  time 
for  your  conduct,  but  attempt  it  again,  even 
by  a  look,  and  as  true  as  there  is  a  God  in 
heaven,  I  will  take  your  life  on  the  instant. 
Ay,  you  need  not  frown,  I  never  was  more  in 
earnest  I  assure  you." 

"  Who  are  you  that  come  here  to  champion 
Mother  Giles'  chickens  ?"  said  the  other,  rising 
from  his  humble  posture,  and  looking  as  though 
he  would  like  to  fight  if  he  dared  to  do  so  with 
such  a  spirit. 

"  A  man !"  replied  the  outcast,  as  he  bent 
his  stern,  resolute  eye  upon  the  other. 

"  Sit  down,"  whispered  one  of  his  friends, 
"  he's  dangerous  if  you  cross  him." 

Thus  warned,  the  pitiless  villain  stalked 
away,  and  said  no  more,  but  the  example  was 
not  without  its  good  effect  upon  the  low  bred 
frequenters  of  the  tap  room,  at  least  so  far  as 
Edith's  comfort  and  interest  was  concerned, 
inasmuch  as  no  one  dared  to  offer  her  insult 
again,  even  in  jest,  for  it  was  whispered  about 
that  Bill  the  Bold,  who  always  kept  his  word, 
had  threatened  to  take  the  life  of  the  first  man 
that  attempted  to  insult  her.  Edith's  growing 
beauty  and  interesting  manner  really  needed 
some  protector,  though  it  should  come  from 
such  a  questionable  source. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 


THE  BURGLAR'S    STORY. 


Oh  !  there  never  was  a  life  like  the  robber's — so 

Jolly,  and  bold,  and  free  ; 
And  it's  end  1— why  a  cheer  from  the  crowd  below, 

And  a  leap  from  a  leafless  tree !  PAUL  CLIFFORD. 


NOT  unfrequently  when  a  party  of  the  des 
peradoes  who  frequented  the  tap-room,  were 
gathered  there  and  in  a  convivial  mood,  some 
one  was  called  upon  for  a  story,  and  the  events 
thus  related  were  often  of  the  most  curious 
and  novel  character.  To  be  sure  they  were 
characteristic,  and  told  in  the  rough,  vulgar 
language  of  the  class  from  which  they  ema 
nated,  but  yet  the  eventful  scenes  through 
which  they  were  constantly  passing,  supplied 
them  with  a  boundless  field  for  stories  and 
plots. 

On  one  of  these  sociable  occasions  when  a 
knot,  including  Bill  the  Bold,  were  gathered 
about  a  table  in  the  tap-room,  one  of  the  com 
rades  called  Hardhead,  from  some  applicability 
of  the  title,  was  called  upon  for  a  story. 

"  Vel,  comrades,  I  doesn't  object  to  tell  vun 
of  'em  as  is  short." 

"  Give  us  something  professional,"  said 
Bill,  placing  his  feet  upon  the  table,  and  puf 
fing  a  cigar. 

"  Stick  to  the  truth  now,  Hardhead,"  said 
another,  settling  himself  to  listen. 

"  I  allers  does,"  said  the  individual  address 
ed,  appealing  to  the  rest. 

"  To  be  sure  you  does,  Hardhead,  now  fire 
away,  my  hearty." 

"  Ah,"  said  Hardhead,  "  times  isn't  what 
they  used  to  was.  These  moral  reform  and 
march  of  himprovement  covies  has  done  up 


many  a  branch  of  the  perfeshun,  as  used  to  be 
honorable  and  exciting,  and  guv  rise  to  a  race 
of  men  as  reflected  credit  on  themselves  and 
the  country.  Vhare,  I  vould  respectfully  en 
quire,  is  the  High  Tobyman  (Highwayman) 
of  other  times  ?  Vere  is  the  Dick  Turpins  and 
the  Claud  du  Wals  and  sich  like — real  gem- 
men,  brave  as  lions,  and  liberal  as  lords,  as 
used  to  sport  their  bits  of  blood  on  the  turf 
and  in  the  Park,  and  flash  their  flimsies  and 
poney  their  dust  in  the  hells  of  London,  and 
go  to  masquerades  at  Wauxhall,  and  go  in  and 
vin  the  'arts  of  duchesses  ?  I  asks,  and  heco 
hanswers,  vhere  ?  They  is  registered  among 
the  bein's  as  vere;  creeters  of  the  past. 
They  is  gone — some  on  'em  sleeps  in  name 
less  graves,  others  transformed  into  'natomies, 
is  hanging  up  in  Surgeon's  'All.  Them  vas 
the  coves.  My  'art  bleeds,  and  a  sea  green 
and  yaller  melancholy,  as  the  poet  sings, 
comes  over  me  venever  I  thinks  on  'em,  it 
does." 

"  Mother  Giles,  another  pint  of  this  'ere 
purl,  if  you  please." 

Having  refreshed  his  inner  man  by  a  deep 
draught  of  the  fiery  liquid,  which  was  brought 
to  him  by  Edith,  Hardhead  cleared  his  throat 
by  several  vigorous  coughs  and  hems,  and  then 
went  on  with  his  story.  . 

"  Them  covies  as  I  was  speakin'  of,  led 
short  lives,  but  merry  ones.  In  the  long  run 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


139 


society,  vich  is  ever  the  henemy  of  the  brave 
and  noble,  hoperating  through  the  mis-called 
ministers  of  justice,  the  tipstaves,  queer  cuffins 
(Magistrates),  cut  'em  short  in  the  career  of 
their  glory.  But  vot  of  it,  comrades  ?  A 
man  can't  die  but  vonce,  and  it  matters  but  lit 
tle  to  the  philosopher  vhether  his  life  be  cut 
short  by  an  'alter  or  a  bullet,  it  doesn't.  'Sides 
the  high  toby  man  vas  alvays  sure  of  the  sym 
pathy  of  the  masses,  not  of  the  big  vigs,  the 
bishops,  lords  and  gemmen,  but  the  people, 
and  'specially  the  ladies — God  bless  'em — 
'ere's  their  good  health.  The  close  of  sich  a 
man's  life  vas  a  moral  triumph,  it  vos. 

"  Ven  the  queer  cuffin,  vith  his  big  vig,  and 
hempty  'ead  put  on  his  black  cap  to  pass  sen 
tence,  the  high  tobyman  stood  up  and  faced 
the  music  like  -a  true  mettled  'oss.  Ven  he 
hentered  the  cart  to  go  to  Tyburn  vith  Jack 
Ketch,  he  vas  dressed  in  his  best,  and  vore  a 
nosegay  in  his  bosom  and  carried  a  bokay  in 
his  hand — The  vimmen.God  bless  'em,  and 
'ere's  th'eir  'ealth  ag'in — shed  pearly  tear  drops, 
dearer  to  him  than  drops  of  purl  (gin).  He 
mounted  the  three  legged  'oss,  foaled  of  a  ha- 
corn,  vith  a  step  as  never  trembled.  He  drop 
ped  the  fatal  'andkerchief,  and  then  vas  drop 
ped  'imself.dying  game  like  a  true  blue  son  of 
a  gun." 

'*  Them  is  reminiscences  as  we  all  knows 
about,  Hardhead,"  said  a  little  stubbed  piece 
of  humanity  beside  of  the  burglar.  "  But 
where's  your  story  ?  that's  what  we  want  to 
hear,  my  covey." 

"  And  you  needn't  talk  about  the  three  leg 
ged  'oss,  if  you  please,"  suggested  another, 
"  for  I  knew  a  fellow  once — " 

"  Hold  up,"  said  a  third  party,  "  we  don't 
want  to  hear  you  now,  let  Hardhead  tell  his 

story." 

"  Ay,  let  Hardhead  tell  his  story,"  chimed 

in  half  a  dozen  all  at  the  same  time. 

"  Vel,  gemmen,  all  that  'ere  is  now  past  and 
gone,  there  aint  many  real  spirited  chaps 
among  us,  cause  vy,  the  breed's  runnin'  out. 
The  business  of  the  road  is  done  up  altogeth 
er,  and  ve  find  ourselves  reduced  to  faking 
dies  and  readers  (stealing  handkerchiefs  and 
pocket-books)  and  cracking  kens  (housebreak- 
ing),  a  business  as  is  beneath  such  as  us,  but 
vich  ve  must  follow,  or  else  ve  shall  starve- 
But  speaking  of  cracking  kens,  brings  me  to 
the  pint  of  my  discourse,  as  I  intend  to  tell 


you,  and  that  is  the  story  of  French  Bill,  as 
all  the  covies  used  to  call  my  'ero." 

"  O,  it's  comin'  at  last,  is  it  ?  Veil,  drive 
ahead  and  give  us  the  story,  comrades,"  said 
the  short  man. 

"  Some  years  ago,"  resumed  Hardhead,  "  a 
young  man  as  vas  properly  introduced  and 
vouched  for,  bringin'  certificates  of  the  very 
vust  moral  character,  and  the  most  desperate 
designs,  joined  the  select  circle  of  gemmen  to 
vich  I  'ad  the  'onor  to  belong.  There  was 
summut  wery  strikin'  in  'is  personal  happear- 
ance,  vich  is  heverything  in  the  perfeshun. 
He  vas  helegantly  formed  and  summut  above 
the  middle  'ith.  He  vas  apparently  slight  and 
weak  as  a  kinchin  mart  (young  girl)  but  hap- 
pearances  is  halmost  halways  deceitful,  for 
that  slight  and  feminine  frame  vas  made  up  of 
bone  like  steel,  and  muscles  like  a  mixture  of 
India  rubber,  whalebone  and  catgut.  My  hies, 
now  I  remember,  vot  a  cove  French  Bill  vas 
ven  he  vas  up. 

"  Von  blow  of  his  light  harm  and  bunch  of 
fives  vould  lay  a  fellar  hout  as  cold  as  Caesar. 
I've  seen  a  good  many  'ansom  cracks  men  in 
my  day,  but  French  Bill  beat  'em  hall,  hout 
and  hout,  he  did. 

"  His  features  were  reg'lar,  his  eyes  blue 
as  London  milk,  his  complexion  remarkable 
for  it's  dilixy,  and  his  'air  black  as  Ingy  ink, 
or  Day  &  Martin.  His  'ands  vas  delicate  as 
a  duchesses,  and  his  feet  wery  small  halso. 
He  simply  guv  his  name  as  Villiam,  and  no 
questions  vas  asked,  for  he  vas  varranted  a 
good  'un  by  'sponsible  men,  and  vot  he  vas,  or 
vare  he  came  from  vas  neither  here  nor  there, 
so  long  as  he  behaved  'imself  like  a  gemman, 
and  vas  true  to  his  pals.  But  then  he  vas  so 
wery  polite — so  like  a  Monseer  in  his  man 
ners,  'sides  his  bein'  able  to  patter  the  lingo 
like  a  reg'lar  built  frog-eater,  that  afteravhile 
he  got  the  name  as  I  have  referred  to,  and  the 
covies  all  called  him  French  Bill,  they  did. 

"In  the  good  hold  times  I  vas  speakin' 
about,  ven  I  begun  this  'ere  story,  French  Bill 
vould  have  been  a  high  tobyman,  but  he  seed 
how  things  vas,  and  know'd  there  vas  no  kind 
of  huse  in  trying  that  on,  and  so  like  a  true 
philosopher,  he  did  the  best  as  could  be  done 
under  the  circumstances,  and  took  to  crakin' 
kens  like  a  real  Trojan.  He  vas  werry  ex 
pert  in  the  huse  of  gimmies  and  false  keys,  he 
took  to  such  things  sort  of  nat'ral  like.  'Sides 


140 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


that,  he  could  snuff  a  candle,  or  centre  the 
bull's  eye  at  ten  paces,  and  could  play  a  sword 
like  a  life  guardsman,  right  and  left,  cut  and 
thrust,  he  could. 

"  Venever  henny  desperate  lay  ( job)  vas 
purposed,  French  Bill  vas  alvays  the  first  vun 
to  wolunteer.  The  whole  town  vas  struck 
aghast  vith  the  daring  of  the  hexploits  he 
achieved,  and  the  police  tried  in  vain,  vith  all 
thqir  cunnin'  and  hexperience,  to  discover  the 
hauthor  of  these  remarkable  houtrages.  Mo 
ney  flowed  into  the  common  stock  like  a  river, 
and  though  he  vas  the  cause  of  nearly  hall 
the  success,  he  vas  wery  modest,  and  vas  con 
tented  vith  a  moderate  share. 

"  Sometimes  he  used  to  disappear  for  veeks 
together,  and  then  ve  had  rumors  that  he  vas 
figurin'  avay  as  a  foreign  Count  at  Bath,  or 
Brighton,  or  Arrowgate,  or  some  other  fash 
ionable  vatering-place,  and  ve  felt  proud  of 
'avin'  von  of  hus  a  takin'  his  proper  stash un 
in  society,  and  representing  the  perfeshun  in 
so  distinguished  a  manner.  Ven  he  came  back 
from  vun  of  these  excursions  he  generally 
brought  a  heap  of  swag  (booty)  with  him, 
showing  that  he  united  business  and  pleasure 
in  a  manner  perfectly  agreeable  and  profitable. 
Sometimes  it  vas  a  gold  mounted  cane  or  hop- 
era-glass,  sometimes  a  diamond  ring,  and 
sometimes  a  bracelet  or  other  harticle  of  jew 
elry.  Many  of  them  were  love-gifts  from  the 
fair  and  fashionable,  and  them  Bill  never  turn 
ed  into  the  common  stock,  he  hal ways  claimed 
these  as  his  own,  and  employed  them  on  pur 
poses  of  his  own,  vich  I  vill  explain  to  you 
gemman  presently,"  said  Hardhead,  turning  to 
Mother  Giles. 

"  Another  pot  of  purl,  if  you  please,  Mother, 
from  the  best  bottle." 

"  I  'allers  sends  you  the  best,  Hardhead,  and 
you  knows  it,"  was  the  answer. 

"Well,  push  it  along,  thank  ye,  Edith," 
said  Hardhead,  as  the  girl  passed  the  pot  of 
gin.  "You  are  a  growin'  hearty,  and  will 
be  a  lady  one  of  these  'ere  days.  Thank  ye, 

girl." 

"Drink  your  purl,  and  go  on  with  the  sto 
ry,"  said  the  little  short  burglar. 

"  Shorts,  don't  be  impatient,  my  cove,  I'll 
accommodate  you  in  a  twinklin',"  said  Hard 
head,  drawing  a  long  breath  after  the  draught 
of  liquor  that  he  had  just  swallowed,  and  pre 
paring  to  go  on  with  his  story. 


"  There  vas  an  old  covey  as  lived  in  Wap- 
ping,  at  the  time  I'm  telling  you  of,  who  vas 
connected  vith  us  by  ties  of  common  interest. 
He  kept  a  small  ship-chandler  shop,hostensibly 
for  sellin'  old  junk,  and  bits  of  iron  and  rope, 
but  in  reality,  he  vas  a  receiver  of  stolen 
goods — as  the  laws  calls  it — an  agent  of  ours, 
and  a  necessary  one  too,  for  he  disposed  of  all 
such  articles  as  ve  didn't  know  vhat  to  do 
vith,  and  vich  ve  picked  up  in  the  line  of  our 
perfeshun.  He  vas  industrious  and  persewer- 
ing,  and  had  got  a  pretty  snug  lot  of  blunt  to 
gether  by  his  business,  and  he  know'd  a  thing 
or  two,  I  tell  you. 

"  Now  this  old  covey  had  an  only  child — a 
daughter.  My  hies  !  vhat  a  beauty  she  vas  ! 
Her  hies  vas  like  stars  in  brightness — only  they 
vas  dark  as  night — but  scarce  darker  than  her 
raving  hair.  She  had  a  form  like  a  queen's. 
Her  valk — my  hies — she  valked  like  a  hopera 
dancer,  and  stepped  as  light  as  a  hinfant  bur 
glar  on  a  egg-stealing  hexpedition.  The  roses 
and  lilies  in  Covent  Gardin'  Market  vas  noth- 
in'  at  all  compared  to  her  complexion.  She 
vas  a  reg'lar  hout  and  houter,  and  no  mistake. 
French  Bill  seed  her,  and  the  first  time  he  sot 
his  peepers  on  her,  vy,  he  vas  struck  up  all  of 
a  'cap,  as  von  may  say.  I  recollects  veil  his 
first  impressions  ven  he  saw  the  gal,  for  you 
see,  I  vas  vith  him. 

"  '  Bill,'  says  I,  for  I  was  lookin'  at  him  all 
the  time,  '  Bill,  you're  a  gone  sucker.  Her 
hies  has  gone  right  through  you  like  a  key 
hole  saw  through  a  panel,  they  have.' 

"  '  Hardhead,'  said  he,  '  you  are  mistaken. 
It's  no  such  thing.' 

"  '  Bill,'  says  I,  '  have  I  been  takin'  too  much 
purl?  tell  me  that.' 

" '  Not's  I  knows  of,  Hardhead,'  said  he 
larfin'  at  me  all  the  time. 

"  '  Then,'  said  I,  '  there's  no  mistake  about 
it,  and  you  are  reg'larly  smit.' 

" '  Oh  !  nonsense,'  said  Bill. 

"  '  Veil,'  said  I,  '  ve  shall  see.  But  look 
sharp  that  the  gal  doesn't  get  you  into  trouble. 
Beware  of  the  blowens,  many  a  man  has  had 
his  neck  stretched  for  'em.  Remember  vot 
the  song  says : 

"  My  nuttiest  blowen  vun  fine  day, 

To  the  beaks  did  her  fancy  man  betray."  ' 

"  'Never  fear,'  said  he,  '  I'm  not  in  love  yet, 
and  if  I  was,  Jenny  is  as  true  as  steel."  ' 
"  But  he  vas   in  love — though   he   didn't 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


141 


! 


know  it  then — and  Miss  Jenny  got  all  the 
pretty  rings,  and  bracelets  and  necklaces  and 
purses,  as  vas  given  to  Bill,  or  stolen  by  him 
ven  he  vent  among  the  big-bugs  at  the  vater- 
ing  places  and  sich  like.  He  used  to  go  a 
sarahnading  her,  and  cumed  all  sorts  of  ro 
mantics  vith  the  girl.  There  vasn't  nothing 
in  the  vay,  for  the  old  man  vas  agreeable,  'cos 
he  knew  French  Bill  vith  all  his  hexpertness 
vas  vurth  his  veight  in  gold.  Vel,  at  last  it 
vos  agreed  that  he  should  marry  her,  for  she 
vos  von  of  that  genteel  sort  as  goes  in  for  the 
parson  and  the  ring.  Her  prospex  and  his'n 
vos  all  bright  and  glowin',  and  many  a  pint  of 
purl  ve  used  to  drink  to  the  'ealth  and  speedy 
union  of  French  Bill  and  the  Wapping 
Belle." 

"  Was  they  married  at  last?"  asked  the  lit 
tle  fellow  they  called  Shorts. 

"  Keep  still  a  bit,"  said  another,  "  can't  ye 
let  a  cove  tell  his  story  ?" 

"  Vel,  boys,"  resumed  Hardhead,  "vun  day 
a  great  lay  vas  proposed  to  us.  This  vas  no 
less  than  cracking  the  ken  of  a  rich  old  hunks 
as  had  just  moved  from  Yorkshire  to  the 
neighborhood  of  London,  vhere  he  had  pur 
chased  a  waluable  willa  on  the  Thames.  The 
chap  as  vas  on  the  lookout  and  reported  the 
game  to  us,  said  the  lockers  vas  full  of  plate, 
and  that  the  old  man  vas  known  to  have  a  vast 
amount  of  gold  vich  he  vas  keeping  by  him  to 
make  a  certain  purchase.  Ve  chose  von  dark 
night  for  the  hexpedition,  andrhafter  gettin' 
everything  ready,  ve  took  a  boat  on  the 
Thames  and  rowed  silently  to  the  willa.  It 
vas  a  dark,  ugly  sort  of  a  night,  no  moon,  no 
stars  wisible,  and  now  and  then  a  big  drop  of 
rain  cumed  down  about  us,  damp  and  dreary. 

"  Me  and  French  Bill  and  Stammering  Jake 
made  up  the  party ;  'twasn't  best  to  have  too 
many,  and  three  could  vurk  as  veil  as  a  dozen 
and  better  too.  We  landed  and  hid  our  boat 
in  a  quiet  place,  and  it  had  got  to  be  about 
midnight  then.  Passing  through  a  dark  lane, 
ve  come  to  a  garden  gate  in  a  brick  vail,  and 
here  ve  heard  the  deep  growl  of  a  bull  dog, 
but  ve  never  vent  unprepared  for  all  emergen 
cies,  and  Bill  tossed  a  piece  of  poisoned  beef 
steak  over  the  wall.  Ve  didn't  hear  no  more 
growlin'  out  of  that  animal.  Dumb  dogs,  like 
dead  men,  tell  no  tales,  and  Bill  said  as  much 
ven  after  listening,  he  vas  convinced  he  vas 
dead.  It  didn't  take  us  long  to  pick  the  gar 


den  gate,  and  ve  soon  found  ourselves  on  the 
other  side,  snug  and  undiscovered,  and  there 
vas  the  dog  as  dead  as  a  herrin'. 

"  Ve  approached  the  house  quietly — nobody 
vas  stirrin',  all  vas  as  dark  and  silent  as  if  it 
had  been  an  old  church  standing  in  a  grave 
yard.  Ve  soon  vorked  our  vay  into  the  house, 
and  up  to  the  china  closet,  vare  ve  opened  our 
dark  lanterns,  .and  vhile  French  Bill  and  Stam 
mering  Jake  vas  fillin'  their  bags  vith  silver 
spoons  and  cups,  I  vent  up  stairs  to  see  vat 
swag  there  vas  aloft.  I  vanted  to  get  hold  of 
some  of  the  shiners  the  old  feller  had  hid 
avay  somevhere,  and  so  I  left  them  to  look  af 
ter  the  other  stuff.  I  opened  a  door  into  a 
chamber,  and  there  vas  the  old  gemman  and 
his  wife  asleep  in  bed.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  room  stood  a  secretary  invitingly  open.  I 
crossed  the  floor  on  tip-toe  and  broke  hopen 
vun  of  the  draws.  My  hies  !  it  vas  full  of 
gold,  himages  of  our  gracious  sovereign  in 
precious  metal.  I  valked  into  the  yellow  boys, 
I  tell  you.  But  some  unlucky  noise  woke  up 
the  old  Trojan,  and  the  fust  thing  I  knowd,he 
lighted  a  lamp.  I  turned  round  just  as  he  \os 
jumping  hout  of  bed.  He  vas  a  vhite-haired 
old  codger,  and  looked  as  brave  as  a  lion. 

"  '  Von  vord,'  said  I,  springin'  to  him,  with 
my  knife  in  my  hand,  '  von  vord,  and  I  stops 
your  squeaking  forever,  with  my  whittler.' 

"  '  Dog  !'  said  he — upon  my  word  he  made 
use  of  that  identical  ungentlemanly  phrase — 
'  die  like  a  hound  as  you  are.' 

"  And  he  snatched  a  pistol  from  the  table 
and  pulled  the  trigger.  The  cap  only  ex 
ploded,  and  I  had  him  by  the  throat. 

"  But  the  noise,  slight  as  it  was — and  it 
was  very  slight,  for  it  didn't  wake  up  his  wife 
though  she  must  'ave  been  an  uncommon 
good  sleeper — struck  the  quick  ear  of  French 
Bill.  Almost  any  one  else  would  'ave  cut, 
but  he  coined  up  vile  the  old  covey  was  strug 
gling  with  me,  a  tryin'  to  get  at  another  pis 
tol  on  the  table." 

Here  the  burglar  stopped  and  called  for  an 
other  drink  of  purl,  showing  by  his  manner 
that  he  had  reached  a  part  of  his  narrative 
that  caused  anything  but  pleasing  memories 
to  arise  in  his  thoughts.  However  he  drank 
again,  and  went  on  : 

"  Of  course  you'll  suppose  when  French 
Bill  came  into  the  room  he  rapped  the  old  cove 
over  the  head.  He  did  no  such  thing.  He 


142 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


gave  me — me — a  blow  behind  the  ear,  as  sent 
me  reelin'  across  the  room,  and  wrenched  the 
knife  out  of  my  hand.  The  old  man  started 
forward  to  see  who  was  his  deliverer,  but  in 
stead  of  pourin'  out  his  thanks,  he  bust  out 
with: 

"  '  O,  God !  is  it  you  Frederick,  and  do  I 
find  you  the  associate  of  villains  ?' 

"  French  Bill,  or  Frederick,  or.  whoever  he 
was,  stood  there  just  as  white  and  ghostly  as 
a  corpse,  and  he  trembled  just  like  a  leaf;  he 
had  to  hold  on  to  a  chair  to  keep  up. 

" '  Ah,'  said  the  old  man,  in  a  hagony  of 
tears,  '  vy  did  you  spare  my  life,  to  give  me 
up  to  shame  and  sorrow  ?  The  knife  of  that 
ruffian  (you  see  covies  he  meant  me)  would 
have  been  more  merciful.' 

"  Then  French  Bill,  mean  Frederick, 
trembled  more  and  more,  till  at  last  he  fell 
down  on  his  knees  and  clasped  his  'ands  and 
cried  like  a  babby,  as  he  said  in  a  broken 
voice : 

" '  Father,  father,  O,  forgive  me  for  my 
poor  mother's  sake.' 

"  I  didn't  stop  to  see  what  followed,  for 
somehow  or  other  the  servants  had  got  the 
alarm,  and  were  movin',  so  I  and  Stammering 
Jake  cut  with  as  much  of  the  swag  as  we 
could  grab.  Ve  got  back  to  St.  Giles's  some 
ow  or  other,  but  without  French  Bill.  He 
didn't  come  back  with  us  that  night — and  he 
never  did." 

"  You  never  see  French  Bill  after  that  ?" 
asked  the  impatient  Shorts. 

"  I  didn't  say  I  never  see  him ;  I  said  he 
never  came  back  again." 

"  Don't  be  botherin',  Shorts,"  said  one  or 
two  of  the  party,  to  the  little  burglar. 

"  Veil,  vot  do  you  think,  my  boys  ?"  resum 
ed  Hardhead.  "  That  old  feller  was  Sir  Fred 
erick  Armington,  a  baronet,  and  French  Bill 
was  his  only  son.  He  vas  a  vild  youth,  and 
the  old  man  had  cast  him  off  and  disowned 
him.  But  blood  is  stronger  than  vater,  and 
after  all  as  had  passed,  the  father  took  him 
back  again,  and  that  'ere  young  man  vas  so 
foolish  and  degraded  that  he  accepted  the  old 
man's  hoffers,  and  so  lost  to  shame,  that  from 
bein'  a  cracksman,  he  sunk  to  a  gemman's  son. 
However,  natur  is  unaccountable.  To  see  a 
young  man  of  his  natural  abilities  run  to 
vaste  in  that  fashun  vos  too  bad,  it  vos. 

"  But  Sir  Frederick  Armington  had  ene 


mies,  and  one  of  'em,  havin'  obtained  infor 
mation  from  a  crackman  who  peached,  de 
nounced  his  son  to  the  authorities,  and  he 
was  at  vunce  arrested.  The  most  powerful 
hinfluences  was  used  with  the  government  for 
his  pardon,  and  at  last  he  obtained  it,  but  only 
on  vun  condition — that  he  would  turn  snitch 
on  his  pals— king's  evidence,  and  denounce  to 
the  authorities  all  his  old  associates.  Ve  got 
vind  of  this  and  dodged,  von  or  two  himigrat- 
ed  to  the  United  States,  others  vent  to  the 
continent.  Bill  spared  me,  and  the  beaks 
never  laid  a  finger  on  me. 

"  But  that  vas  nuffin,  and  I  vas  bound  to 
do  justice  on  the  traitor,  and  I  swore  to  take 
his  life." 

"  Veil,  did  you  do  it  ?"  asked  Shorts,  again 
interrupting  Hardhead. 

"  No." 

"You  didn't?" 

"  No— I  didn't." 

"  Vot  pervented  you  ?" 

"  Vot  pervented  me  ?  Just  this  'ere.  But 
I'm  mighty  dry,"  and  Hardhead  took  another 
draught  of  the  "  purl,"  and  after  a  moment's 
pause,  resumed  his  story  as  follows  : 

"  Jenny,  Frederick's  blowen,  the  gal  at 
Wapping  as  he'd  swore  to  marry,  she  who 
had  given  herself  entirely  up  to  him,  got  vind 
of  my  design,  and  by  her  powers  of  perswa- 
shun,  prevailed  upon  me  to  hold  my  hand  for 
a  while.  She  said  as  how  she'd  a  good  rea 
son  for  it,  and  palavered  me  till  I  consented. 
Then  the  poor  hinnocent  gal  tried  her  arts  to 
while  him  back  to  her  harms  again,  never 
doubting  for  a  moment  that  he  loved  her  still, 
as  before,  and  they  did  meet  after  that  more 
than  vonce,  and  he  allers  swore  eternal  love 
to  the  ship  chandler's  daughter. 

"  But  she  soon  found  hout  that  he  was  just 
as  false  to  her  as  he  had  been  to  hus,  and  that 
he  was  at  that  very  time  ven  he  corned  and 
promised  her  everything,  engaged  to  marry  a 
French  nobleman's  daughter.  This  put  an 
end  to  all  her  love ;  she  didn't  palaver  any 
more  about  that,  but  looked  as  though  her 
principal  vituals  vas  vormvood  and  gaul.  If 
you  have  seen  a  Bengal  tigress,  you'll  have 
some  idea  how  that  blowen  looked  ven  she 
vas  satisfied  that  his  love  was  false  to  her. 

"  '  Veil,  Jenny,'  said  I,  von  day,  for  I  often 
vent  over  there  in  a  friendly  vay,  and  some 
times  on  business  too,  '  do  you  vant  me  to 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


143 


hold  my  hand  any  longer  ?  aint  you  convinced 
of  his  treachery  now.' 

" '  Yes,  Hardhead,'  said  she,  '  but  don't 
harm  him  yet,  for  my  sake.' 

"  '  If  you  say  so,'  said  I,  '  vhy  I'll  hold  off 
for  a  year,  but  I  shall  keep  my  oath  at  last.' 

" '  Only  a  little  while  longer,  Hardhead,' 
said  the  poor  girl,  « for  my  sake.' 

"  '  But  you  are  growin'  pale,  Jenny,'  said 
I,  '  you  musn't  be  unhappy  for  such  as  he.' 

" '  O,  no,  Hardhead,  not  I ;  don't  think  I'm 
unhappy  for  his  sake.' 

"  But  I  know'd  all  the  while  that  she  was 
miserable  about  his  desertin'  her,  and  this 
made  me  want  to  kill  him  all  the  more,  for  I 
half  loved  Jenny  myself,  though  she  didn't 
care  a  pin  for  me. 

"  Shortly  arter  this,  there  was  a  masquer 
ade  ball  on  the  Christmas  holidays  at  one  of 
the  theatres,  and  I  vent  there  myself  for  the 
purpose  of  pickin'  up  a  job  in  a  perfeshunal 
ray.  Veil,  Jenny,  the  belle  of  Wapping,  vas 
there  too,  dressed  as  a  gipsey,  and  she  fasten 
ed  onto  a  young  man  in  a  pink  domino,  vich 
vas  nobody  else  but  our  old  French  Bill,  as 
was  now  called  Frederick  Armington.  He 
didn't  know  her,  but  she  recognized  him  by 
his  voice,  his  manner,  and  his  walk. 

''  She  vas  a  werry  facinating  creature,  wer- 
ry  genteel  and  haccomplished,  and  she  per 
fectly  bewildered  him.  At  the  close  of  the 
evening,  he  asked  permission  to  accompany 
her  home.  She  consented,  replying  in  the 
same  feigned  voice  as  she  had  assumed  for 
the  whole  evenin',  and  he  was  delighted,  for 
he  seemed  to  have  become  infatuated  with 
the  unknown  beauty.  Veil,  they  got  into  a 
car'age  and  vare  driven  fast  through  a  part  of 
the  town,  until  they  arrived  at  last  before  a 
house  in  St.  Giles',  in  a  dark  street,  vare  no 
police  troubles  themselves  to  penetrate,  and 
vare  the  houses  vare  very  old. 


"  Frederick,  "or  French  Bill,  just  vich  you 
please,  vas  too  much  hoccupied  witb  his  new 
conquest  to  observe  particularly  vare  they 
had  come  to,  and  she  took  good  care  to  keep 
his  mind  engaged  upon  other  matters,  and  as 
the  car'age  stopped  and  he  handed  her  hout, 
she  took  him  by  the  hand,  as  hif  to  show  him 
the  way,  and  led  him  up  a  narrow  and  dark 
staircase,  and  then  into  a  room  that  was  as 
dark  as  Hegypt — you  couldn't  see  your  hand 
before  you. 

"  '  Can't  we  have  a  light,  my  dear  ?'  said 
Frederick  Armington. 

"  '  Yes,  vait  a  moment,"  said  she,  '  while  I 
get  a  lamp.' 

" '  I'm  all  impatient  to  see  that  pretty  face 
of  yours,'  said  he. 

"  Veil,  let  go  of  my  hand  for  a  moment,  vill 
you  ?'  said  she. 

"  '  If  you  will  be  very  quick  I  will.  Do  you 
promise  me  ?' 

"  But  slipping  away  she  made  him  no  ans 
wer,  and  in  a  moment  afterwards,  he  felt  a 
cold  ring  of  steel  pressed  against  his  forehead, 
and  was  startled  by  a  voice  that  he  recognized 
only  too  late,  and  vich  thrilled  through  every 
fibre  of  his  guilty  frame,  as  it  solemnly  pro 
nounced  these  words  in  his  very  ear  : 

"  '  Die,  double  traitor,  false  to  your  friends, 
and  to  your  love !' 

"  The  explosion  of  a  pistol  instantly  followed 
these  vords,  and  Frederick  Armington  alias 
French  Bill,  fell  dead  at  the  very  feet  of  his 
forsaken  bio  wen,  who  would  have  been  to  him 
a  faithful  mistress. 

"  Thus  fell  a  scoundrel  as  turned  snitch  on 
his  pals,  and  may  hevery  traitor  meet  with 
the  fate  of  French  Bill." 

As  he  ended  his  story  thus,  the  sentiment 
was  echoed  by  the  whole  company,  who  drank 
Hardhead's  health  in  a  glass  of  purl. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 


EDITH  AND  CLARA. 


Virtue  is  like  precious  odors,  most  fragrant  when  they  are  incensed  or  crushed  ;  for  prosperity  doth 
best  discover  vice,  but  adversity  doth  best  discover  virtue. — BACON. 


THE  reader  will  remember  the  night  when 
the  two  burglars  and  the  little  boy  effected 
their  entrance  into  Sir  Robert  Brompton's 
house,  and  of  their  escaping  after  a  fruitless 
search  for  booty,  with  the  person  of  Edith, 
Sir  Robert's  adopted  child,  We  left  them 
just  as  they  were  passing  out  of  the  basement 
window  in  front  of  the  house,  while  the  watch 
or  night  police  were  entering  by  the  back 
door.  We  will  not  pause  to  describe  the  con 
sternation  that  spread  itself  through  Sir  Rob 
ert's  household,  but  will  follow  the  burglars 
and  their  burthen. 

Edith,  as  we  have  already  said,  was  quite 
insensible, offering  no  resistance  to  the  purposes 
of  the  villains,  who  were  thus  tearing  her 
from  the  bosom  of  a  happy  and  contented 
home.  In  this  state  the  burglars  bore  her 
along  in  their  arms  by  the  shaded  side  of  the 
streets,  until  at  last  reaching  a  dark  alley  they 
entered  it,  and  having  threaded  its  entire 
length,  they  seemed  to  pass  the  rest  of  the 
distance,  which  carried  them  to  their  rendez 
vous,  by  following  the  course  of  the  darkest 
lanes  and  alleys  and  by  streets  that  the  me 
tropolis  would  boast  of,  and  though  they  did 
not  seek  that  portion  of  the  town  universally 
known  as  St.  Giles,  yet  after  a  half  hour  or 
more,  they  had  stopped  at  last  in  a  small  sub 
urban  district  that  was  certainly  of  no  better 
character  than  that  notorious  locality. 


Entering  a  large  old  wooden  building  that 
must  once  have  been  occupied  for  some  exten 
sive  manufacturing  purpose,  but  which  was 
now  quite  tottering  and  dilapidated,  presenting 
a  half  ruinous  appearance,  they  deposited  their 
living  burthen  upon  the  floor  of  the  room 
which  they  entered,  where  a  lamp  was  burn 
ing  evidently  in  anticipation  of  their  arrival, 
and  for  their  use.  Edith  had  so  far  revived 
during  the  latter  part  of  the  route  as  to  sob 
faintly  now  and  then,  but  not  sufficiently  to 
realize  the  situation  in  which  she  was  placed. 
But  now  as  she  was  laid  down  gently  upon 
the  floor,  she  gradually  came  more  fully  to 
herself,  and  her  physical  strength  to  revive, 
and  in  this  condition  rising  upon  her  arms,  she 
looked  wildly  about  her  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said  : 

"  Is  this  a  dream,  a  horrible  dream,  or  am  I 
awake  ?  Where  am  I  ?" 

The  two  burglars  whispered  to  each  other 

"  What  does  this  mean,  where  am  I?"  ask 
ed  Edith,  half  amazed. 

Neither  of  the  burglars  seemed  disposed  to 
answer  the  question,  but  the  elder  of  the  two, 
whom  the  reader  ere  this  has  recognized  as 
Bill  the  Bold,  went  to  a  side  door,  bidding 
his  companion,  who  was  Hardhead,  to  keep  a 
bright  look  out  on  the  girl  for  a  moment,  and 
rapped,  and  half  opening  it,  asked  of  the  in 
mate  : 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


145 


"  Are  you  awake,  Clara  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  a  gentle  and  very  soft  voice 
from  within  the  room. 

"  Come  out  here,  I  want  you,"  said  the  bur 
glar,  who  then  closed  the  door,  and  waited  for 
the  person  he  had  summoned,  to  make  her 
appearance.  But  he  was  very  impatient,  and 
in  a  moment  more,  he  opened  the  door  again, 
and  said  softly  : 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  keep  me  wait 
ing,  girl  ?  come,  make  haste." 

"  I  am  coming  in  one  moment,"  replied  the 
same  pleasant  voice. 

In  about  a  minute  after  this  second  call,  a 
young  girl  entered  the  room,  and  upon  behold 
ing  Edith  she  seemed  struck  with  surprise. 
She  must  have  been  of  very  nearly  the  same 
age  as  Edith,  and  she  was  of  much  the  same 
figure  and  appearance,  and  indeed  there  did 
seem  to  be  not  a  slight  degree  of  resemblance 
between  them,  in  complexion,  features  and 
expression.  Clara,  as  the  burglar  had  called 
her,  came  at  once  to  Edith's  side,  looking  anx 
iously  towards  the  robbers  as  if  to  know  what 
she  was  to  do.  Then  pausing  for  a  moment, 
she  seemed  to  gaze  with  ardent  admiration 
upon  the  lovely  face  and  form  before  her,  and 
taking  Edith's  hand  within  her  own,  she 
pressed  it  kindly,  while  she  bent  over  her,  and 
addressed  some  kind  words  to  her  in  a  whis 
per. 

"  Take  her  with  you  and  take  care  of  her," 
said  the  burglar,  coldly. 

"  Is  she  to  stay  long  here  ?"  asked  Clara 
innocently  enough. 

"That  concerns  you  not;  do  as  you  are 
bid,  and  be  content." 

"  Come,  Hardhead,"  continued  the  other, 
"  you  and  I  will  go  now,  and  leave  these  girls 
together." 

"Good  night,  Clara,"  said  Hardhead,  nod 
ding  familiarly  to  Clara. 

"  Good  night,"  replied  the  girl,  absently,  as 
she  retired  to  the  room  for  a  lamp,  while  the 
two  men  withdrew  from  the  apartment  and 
locked  the  door  after  them. 

Clara  soon  returned  with  a  lamp,  and  ta 
king  Edith  by  the  hand,  she  led  her,  with  a 
kind  assurance  that  no  one  would  harm  her, 
into  the  other  room,  which  was  evidently  the 
one  appropriated  for  her  own  occupancy. 
Having  got  in  here  and  closed  the  door,  the 
lamp  was  placed  upon  a  table,  and  the  young 
10 


girls  sat  down  opposite  to  each  other  to  gaze 
for  some  time  in  wonder ;  Clara  at  the  ex 
quisite  loveliness  and  rich  dress  of  her  com 
panion,  and  Edith  to  look  from  the  poorly 
clad  but  handsome  girl  opposite,  to  ihe  strange 
apartment  and  the  prominent  signs  and  tokens 
of  the  place,  which  recalled  most  vividly  to  her 
mind  the  position  of  circumstances  with  re 
gard  to  herself  a  little  more  than  a  year  pre 
vious,  in  the  tap  room  of  Mother  Giles ! 

What  a  throng  of  contending  emotior  s 
rushed  across  her  brain  as  she  sat  there  thus 
contemplating  the  scene  before  her. 

The  place  was  a  sort  of  store  room  used  for 
the  keeping  of  lumber,  or  any  refuse  article 
that  it  was  desirable  to  put  aside  for  the  time 
being,  and  the  dingy,  dirty  look  that  the  ar 
ticles  presented,  showed  that  it  was  long  since 
they  had  been  disturbed.  In  the  corner  of  the 
room  there  was  a  miserable  apology  for  a  bed 
which  was  spread  upon  the  bare  floor,  and 
which  was  evidently  the  sleeping  place  of  the 
young  girl  already  referred  to.  Edith  sur 
veyed  the  apartment  calmly,  and  seemed  to 
understand  the  situation  of  matters  at  once, 
and  being  far  too  weak  and  exhausted  from 
her  late  adventures  either  to  ask  questions  or 
to  answer  them,  at  last  lay  down  with  Clara 
at  her  kind  suggestion,  and  in  spite  of  her 
fears  and  grief,  after  awhile  fell  into  a  troubled 
sleep  which  lasted  until  late  in  the  morning. 

'Of  course  Edith  found  immediately  on  ri 
sing  from  her  hard  couch  that  she  was  a  pris 
oner;  indeed  the  burglar  who  had  brought  her 
thither  told  her  so  at  the  outset,  and  that  she 
must  not  as  she  valued  her  life,  attempt  to 
escape  from  the  place,  and  he  so  inspired  her 
also  with  dread  and  fear,  that  had  no  other 
means  been  taken  to  prevent  her  escape  from 
the  house,  it  is  doubtful  if  Edith,  scarcely  more 
than  a  child  in  years  and  experience,  would 
have  dared  to  make  the  attempt,  notwithstan 
ding  she  felt  most  acutely  every  bearing  of 
her  singular  position,  and  realized  how  anxious 
and  unhappy  Sir  Robert,  Walter,  and  the 
good  Mrs.  Marlow  would  be.  And  then  the 
last  twelvemonth  of  improvement  had  been  so 
thorough,  and  she  had  been  so  susceptible  to  the 
best  influences,  that  were  so  liberally  exerted 
in  her  behalf,  that  she  realized  in  the  keenest 
manner  the  contrast  between  the  comfort  and 
refinement  that  she  had  just  left  at  Sir  Robert's 
house,  and  the  vulgar  associations  that  sur- 


146 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


rounded  her  on  all  sides  in  this  filthy  place. 
In  her  speculations  upon  these  matters,  once 
the  fear  crossed  her  mind  that  possibly  when 
the  family  at  Sir  Robert's  should  awake  In 
the  morning  and  find  the  house  robbed  and 
herself  gone,  they  might  be  led  to  suspect  her 
of  being  voluntarily  absent,  and  that  she  was 
one  of  those  who  had  robbed  them.  The 
bare  probability  of  such  a  thing  seemed  to 
render  her  most  miserable ;  all  other  casual 
ties  growing  out  of  her  present  situation  for 
the  moment  dwindled  into  insignificance  when 
compared  with  the  chance  that  these  dearly 
loved  ones  might  suspect  her  of  being  unwor 
thy  the  generous  solicitude  she  had  received 
at  their  hands,  and  of  thus  repaying  the 
warm  affection  that  each  and  all  in  that 
dear  house  had  accorded  to  her.  But  this 
thought  did  not  trouble  her  long.it  was  dismissed 
as  being  unworthy  of  a  single  pang  of  fear. 
"They  must  have  known  my  heart  too  well," 
she  said  to  herself. 

A  few  days  served  to  accustom  Edith  to 
her  unhappy  situation,  or  at  least  compara 
tively  so,  and  also  to  cause  her  to  feel  some 
interest  in  her  young  companion  in  misery. 
Clara,  as  they  called  her,  was,  like  Edith,  not 
more  than  fifteen  years  of  age,  yet  the  mode 
of  life  that  she  had  evidently  followed,  had 
perhaps  more  fully  developed  her  person  and 
mind,  as  it  regarded  her  bearing  and  manner. 
For  many  years,  as  Edith  afterwards  learned, 
she  had  been  thrown  entirely  on  her  own  re 
sources,  for  the  care  of  herself,  and  without  so 
much  as  a  single  adviser  of  her  own  sex  to 
whom  she  might  go  or  consult  upon  even  the 
most  trifling  subjects.  Her  casual  associates 
had  been  rude' and  boisterous  men,  with  now 
and  then  an  exception  in  favor  of  some  one 
who  possessed  more  heart  and  kindness  than 
the  rest.  Her  home  had  ever  been  in  some 
den  like  this,  where  burglars  and  thieves 
made  their  headquarters.  She  was  very  hand 
some,  yet  not  so  much  so  as  her  new  com 
panion,  her  beauty  being  of  rather  a  different 
character.  She  was  playful,  quick  at  repar 
tee,  and  apparently  happy  injspite  of  her  situ 
ation,  for  she  had  never  known  any  other  life 
than  that  she  now  led,  nor  did  she  possess 
that  nice  sense  of  delicacy  that  would  render 
her,  as  it  did  Edith,  unhappy  because  a  rude 
word  was  spoken  in  her  hearing  or  herself 
made  the  butt  of  a  coarse  or  a  low  jest. 


Of  course  this  was  occasioned  by  the  want 
of  education  and  association  with  the  refined 
of  her  own  sex,  in  no  small  degree,  and  yet  in 
Edith's  case,  which  in  many  respects  seemed 
to  bear  a  strong  resemblance  to  that  of  Clara 
there  was  a  certain  delicacy,  and  an  inward 
prompting,  that  had  kept  her  pure  from  the 
contaminating  influences  that  had  surrounded 
her  in  the  tap  shop  of  St.  Giles.  She  had 
come  from  that  den  as  pure  and  unstained  at 
heart,  as  though  she  had  never  seen  the  dingy 
houses  of  London,  or  breathed  its  murky  at 
mosphere,  but  had  gambolled  away  her  youth 
on  sloping  hill-sides,  and  by  the  margin  of 
babbling  brooks.  It  was  nature,  not  art,  in 
Edith.  But  let  Clara's  situation  have  been 
what  it  may,  her  character  and  natural  dispo 
sition  was  so  free,  generous,  truthful  and 
warm-hearted,  that  Edith  had  not  been  in  the 
house  with  her  a  single  week,  before  she  loved 
her  like  a  sister,  and  frankly  told  her  so. 
Only  too  much  delighted  to  have  a  companion 
of  any  sort,  Clara  returned  this  affection  with 
interest.  She  seemed  to  be  under  considerable 
fear  of  Lancewood,  as  Bill  was  known  in  this 
place,  at  the  head  of  which  he  seemed  to  be. 
Clara  said  that  he  had  been  known  to  kill  so 
many  people  who  had  opposed  him,  that  she 
was  afraid  he  would  one  day  take  her  life, 
and  throw  her  body  into  the  Thames. 

"Does  he  ever  threaten  you,  Clara,  that 
you  fear  him  so  much  ?" 

"  No,  but  before  you  came,  he  used  to  sit 
and  look  at  me  strangely,  and  now  he  does 
just  the  same  to  you,  though  I  don't  think 
that  he  means  to  harm  you,  I  am  sure  I  don't. 
But  don't  you  think  his  eyes  are  very  bad 
ones  ?" 

"  They  don't  look  very  pleasant  or  agreea 
ble  to  me,  you  may  depend." 

"  I  never  saw  worse  ones." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here,  Clara  ?" 
asked  Edith. 

"  About  a  year,  I  should  think,  though  I 
keep  no  count  of  time." 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  then  ?" 

"  A  place  farther  in  the  city." 

"  Like  this  ?  I  mean,  frequented  by  this  sort 
of  people  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  any  father  living  ?" 

"  No." 

"  No  mother  ?" 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


147 


"  No,  1  never  had  one  to  know  her.  A 
woman  whom  I  used  to  call  aunt,  was  very 
good  to  me,  I  can  remember,  until  I  was  six 
or  seven  years  old,  but  I  was  taken  away  from 
her  by  somebody  after  a  while,  though  how, 
or  why,  I  canot  exactly  remember.  I  believe 
she  died  or  was  murdered,  but  I  have  seen  so 
many  strange  persons  since,  I  have  had  so 
many  changes,  that  I  cannot  remember  very 
well  about  those  times.  I  do  remember  that 
for  a  while  I  had  no  home  at  all,  but  used  to 
sleep  under  a  boat  at  Wapping,  and  beg  in 
the  day  time.  After  that  I  was  in  a  cellar  in 
St.  Giles,  and  helped  to  take  care  of  a  bar, 
but  they  said  I  was  too  small,  and  one  day 
the  woman  who  lives  in  the  rooms  with  Mrs. 
Lancewood  saw  me  there,  and  she  said  if  I 
would  come  with  her  and  help  her  take  care 
of  her  house  here,  she  would  give  me  a  com 
fortable  home.  But  the  first  time  that  Lance- 
wood  saw  me,  he  started  and  gazed  at  me  so 
queerly  that  the  woman  drove  me  out  of  the 
room,  and  I  have  had  to  sleep  and  stay  in 
these  rooms  ever  since,  except  helping  her  a 
little  now  and  then  when  he  is  out." 

Edith  remembered  that  he  had  been  similar 
ly  moved  when  he  first  saw  her  at  Mother 
Giles's,  but  said  nothing. 

"  So  this  is  the  comfortable  home  that  the 
woman  promised  you,"  said  Edith,  glancing 
about  the  room  they  were  in,  and  then  com 
paring  it  in  her  mind  with  the  sumptuous 
apartments  that  she  occupied  at  Sir  Robert 
Brompton's. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  think  it  a  very  good 
home,"  said  Clara,  "  but  then  it  is  a  nice  one 
for  me  after  all.  I  had  to  sleep  in  an  open 
shed  most  of  winter  before  last,  and  then  O, 
I  was  so  cold  in  the  frosty  nights,  that  I  used 
to  cry  ;  but  this  room  you  see  is  quite  close, 
and  then  I've  got  a  pretty  good  bed.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Edith  ?" 

"  Perhaps  so,  Clara." 

"  No,  but  don't  you  really  think  so?"  asked 
her  companion,  earnestly. 

Edith  could  only  smile  at  her  earnestness 
and  simplicity.  No  word  of  complaint  had 
escaped  her  lips  since  the  night  on  which  she 
had  been  brought  to  the  miserable  abode. 
Even  when  the  rough  and  profane  woman 
who  seemed  to  be  the  wife  of  Lancewood 
came  to  her  and  took  away  the  nice  clothes 
that  she  had  worn  on  that  fearful  night  when 


she  was  stolen  away  from  her  friends,  she 
said  not  a  word,  submitting  without  resist 
ance,  but  with  an  aching  heart,  that  was  far 
too  sad  and  broken  to  utter  its  complaint. 
Now  she  was  clothed  like  Clara,  very  coarsely, 
but  still  their  clothes  were  whole,  and  it  rested 
with  them  to  keep  them  clean.  Some  light 
duties  were  required  of  them  by  the  woman 
referred  to,  who  seemed  to  wish  to  get  rid  of 
them  ;  but  this  she  dared  not  attempt,  though 
she  ruled  Lancewood  apparently  in  nearly  all 
things  else,  yet  relating  to  this  matter,  she  did 
not  seem  to  dare  to  cross  his  will  or  thwart 
him.  . 

To  Clara  the  story  which  her  new  friend 
told  her  of  her  life  at  the  tap-room  in  St. 
Giles,  her  singular  rescue  from  thence,  and 
the  manner  in  which  it  was  done,  and  the 
subsequent  years  which  she  had  passed  so  hap 
pily  at  Sir  Robert  Brompton's  house,  seemed 
like  a  fairy  tale,  and  she  was  never  tired  of 
listening  to  it  from  Edith's  lips.  Indeed  her 
new  companion  was  obliged  to  tell  these 
things  to  her  again  and  again,  and  repeat  to 
her  over  and  over  again,  how  the  good  Mrs. 
Marlow  looked,  and  what  she  said,  for  it  seem 
ed  to  the  inexperienced  and  beautiful  girl  that 
such  things  could  hardly  be  true,  they  were 
so  wonderfully  beyond  all  experience  of  her 
own.  But  she  believed  every  word,  because 
she' knew  that  Edith  would  not  deceive  her, 
and  she  kindly  sympathized  with  her  young 
companion  at  the  loss  of  such  friends,  and 
would  have  cheerfully  risked  much  to  have 
placed  her  once  more  safely  in  the  hands  of 
those  she  had  left.  But  she  feared  for  her 
very  life,  should  she  take  any  step  to  further 
such  design  as  that  of  Edith's  escape. 

The  reputed  wife  of  Lancewood  watched 
the  girls  narrowly,  and  strove,  it  seemed  to 
them,  to  render  their  position  as  uncomforta 
ble  as  possible.  None  but  the  coarsest  food 
was  permitted  for  their  use,  and  this  was  of 
ten  scantily  served.  Lancewood  himself  fre 
quently  came  and  smoked  his  pipe  in  the 
room  adjoining  the  store  room,  and  drank  his 
portion  of  spirit  and  water,  and  when  he  did 
so,  he  often  summoned  them  from  their  sleep 
ing  room  and  engaged  them  in  conversation. 
To  Edith  these  were  terrible  moments,  for  the 
man  at  times  would  stare  at  her  so  wildly, 
and  seeming  to  forget  himself,  would  often 
mutter  such  strange,  incoherent  sentences, 


148 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


that  she  would  involuntarily  draw  near  to 
Clara,  and  almost  seek  to  hide  herself  behind 
her  companion.  Then  at  times,  the  woman 
who  kept  the  house  would  come  in  upon 
them,  when  a  scene  was  sure  to  ensue.  She 
would  rave  in  the  most  violent  and  unaccount 
able  rage  at  him  for  preferring  the  company, 
as  she  said,  of  the  two  young  girls  to  her, 
and  Bill  the  Bold  was  most  untrue  to  the 
title  his  comrades  had  given  him  as  character 
istic  of  his  spirit,  for  as  Lancewood  in  his 
own  house,  he  was  perfectly  submissive  to 
this  woman's  tongue. 

Though  bold  beyond  all  his  comrades  when 
there  was  actual  danger  to  meet  and  overcome, 
yet  he  could  not  contend  against  such  fear 
ful  odds  as  an  incensed  and  jealous  woman 
presented. 

Sometimes,  one  or  two  young  men,  evi 
dently  under  the  patronage  of  the  woman  of 
the  house,  came  to  see  Clara  and  Edith,  but 
although  the  latter  always  retired  as  quickly 
as  possible  from  their  coarse  and  unmannerly 
society,  yet  she  was  not  unfrequently  surpris 
ed  and  even  grieved  to  find  that  Clara  did  not 
wholly  dislike  their  company.  The  truth  was, 
Edith  could  make  no  allowance  for  the  want 
of  native  delicacy  in  another  that  she  herself 
was  so  fully  endowed  with,  nor  did  she  re 
member  poor  Clara's  lack  of  cultivation,  and 
ignorance  even  of  the  first  principles  of  reli 
gion  and  Christianity.  The  society  of  the 
vile  even,  if  characterized,  as  it  was  on  such 
occasions,  to  her  by  kindness,  was  a  novelty 
in  which  her  untutored  mind  could  find  no 
cause  for  self-crimination.  These  casual 
friends  were  kind  and  generous  to  the  forlorn 
girl,  and  she  was  but  too  happy  to  experience 
such  treatment  from  any  one. 

Heaven  weighs  the  deeds  of  such  in  a  wise 
balance;  if  Clara  sinned,  she  did  so  innocent 
ly.  If  she  was  imprudent  and  even  guilty  in 
deed,  still  her  heart  was  true  and  innocent, 
for  she  knew  no  better ! 

True,  she  sometimes  listened  thoughtfully 
io  the  simple  reflections  of  Edith,  upon  her 
entertaining  the  society  we  have  referred  to, 
but  neither  were  much  more  than  children — 
and  how  could  it  be  expected  that  such  should 
successfully  repel  temptation  ?  or  rather  how 
could  Edith  inspire  her  handsome  and  win 
ning  companion  with  the  feelings  that  filled 
her  own  gentle  breast  where  the  foundation 


for  receiving  such  goodly  advice  was  entirely 
wanting  ?  As  for  Edith  herself,  she  might 
have  lived  for  many  a  long  year  in  such  a 
place  without  contamination.  Nay,  she  would 
have  come  out  of  the  fiery  ordeal  as  pure  as 
the  asbestos,  which  is  only  cleansed  by  con 
tact  with  the  fiery  element. 

"  Clara,  I  know  you  will  no  longer  see  those 
persons,  for  my  sake." 

The  eyes  of  the  handsome  girl  would  seek 
the  floor,  but  she  spoke  not. 

"  Say,  Clara,  will  you  not  refuse  to  meet 
any  of  them  again  ?" 

"  Alas,  Edith,"  she  would  answer,  sadly, 
"  are  we  not  very  often  without  food  and  ar 
ticles  of  actual  necessity  to  keep  us  warm 
and  comfortable,  and  are  not  those  persons 
who  bring  them  to  us  our  friends  ?" 

"O,  my  dear  Clara,  we  should  not  prejudice 
our  souls  to  comfort  our  bodies,"  Edith  would 
say,  repeating  the  good,  though  homely  ad 
vice  that  Mrs.  Marlow  had  often  given  her. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Edith  ?''  she  would  ask, 
thoughtfully. 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  I  do,  Clara,  or  I  would 
not  say  so." 

"  I  believe  you,  Edith'." 

"  And  will  think  of  what  I  say  ?" 

"  I  will." 

Shrewd  hints  and  repeated  warnings  of 
this  and  the  like  character,  were  not  lost  upon 
a  disposition  naturally  so  sweet  and  gentle  as 
that  of  the  orphan  Clara.  She  did  think 
much  upon  what  Edith  said  to  her,  and  before 
a  twelvemonth  had  expired — for  time  is  quickly 
passing  on  as  our  story  proceeds — Clara  had 
gradually  learned  to  listen  with  more  and 
more  absorbing  interest  to  the  reflections  of 
Edith,  and  to  understand  her  meaning  and 
object  better,  and  indeed  voluntarily  to  refer 
to  the  great  and  vital  principles  of  virtue 
which  she  had  so  earnestly  and  frequently 
repeated  to  her,  and  then  poor  Clara  would 
weep  at  her  own  condition  and  declare  that 
she  must  have  been  blind  not  to  have  known 
and  realized  all  these  things  of  her  own  heart. 
A  change  seemed  to  take  place  in  her  whole 
manner  and  character,  and  she  was  never  tired 
of  talking  with  her  companion  upon  the  sub 
ject  of  good  principles,  and  the  strength  of 
purpose  and  resolve  that  would  enable  a  re 
pentant  one  to  sustain  a  truly  innocent  course 
of  behaviour. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


149 


What  a  lovely,  but  unhappy  champion  of 
virtue  was  Edith  there !  How  successful  she 
was  with  her  fair  young  companion,  and  how 
tenderly  they  loved  each  other,  sharing  all 
their  hardships  and  deprivations  together. 

"  It  seems,  dear  Edith,"  Clara  would  say, 
"  that  having  been  providentially  rescued  from 
a  position  not  unlike  my  own,  save  that  I 
have  been  more  sadly  unfortunate  than  you 
were,  heaven  has  chosen  this  strange  means 
to  bring  us  together,  that  I  may  profit  by  your 
knowledge  and  virtue." 

"  Ah  !  may  the  work  so  feebly  begun,  Clara, 
be  yet  perfectly  consummated  by  your  eventu 
ally  finding  that  position  and  care,  which 
your  dear  kind  nature  so  richly  deserves." 

"  You  are  too  kind  and  thoughtful  of  me," 
the  ingenuous  girl  would  say,  throwing  her 
arms  tenderly  about  Edith's  neck,  and  im 
printing  an  honest  token  of  affection  upon  her 
fair  cheek. 

Having  studied  well  their  situation,  and  the 
manner  in  which  they  were  detained,  the  two 
young  girls  resolved,  on  the  first  fitting  oppor 
tunity,  to  attempt  an  escape  from  the  thral 
dom  that  bound  them.  They  were  so  cun 
ningly  watched,  however,  so  hedged  in  by  a 
series  of  combined  circumstances,  that  it  seem 
ed  almost  impossible  for  them  to  make  a  suc 
cessful  attempt  for  their  liberty.  Had  not 
this  been  the  case,  Edith  would  long  since 
have  risked  everything  in  the  effort  to  regain 
her  freedom,  and  in  fact  she  had  more  than 
once  attempted  to  do  so,  but  was  frustrated  by 
her  captor  and  his  emissaries. 

Of  late,  too,  Lancewood  had  been  more  fre 
quent  in  his  visits  to  their  rooms,  and  his 
eyes,  which  glared  upon  her  always  with 
some  secret  and  undefinable  passion,  incited 
by  circumstances  that  she  knew  not  of,  seemed 
to  her  more  terrible  than  ever,  and  more  and 
more  did  she  fear  him,  for  she  knew  not  to 
what  fearful  end  he  might  thus  be  detaining 
her.  It  was  after  one  of  his  singular  visits  in 
which  he  was  more  than  usually  moved,  seem 
ingly  by  recollections  of  the  past  and  the 
promptings  of  the  present,  that  Edith  whisper 
ed  to  Clara  when  he  was  gone  : 


"  I  can  remain  here  no  longer,  Clara,  and 
though  I  may  lose  'my  life  in  the  attempt,  I 
am  resolved  to  leave  this  house  at  once  and 
forever.  Will  you  not  try  and  go  with  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  where  to,  Edith  ?"  she  asked. 

"  To  good  Sir  Robert  Brompton's,  provided 
we  can  only  get  once  clear  of  this  fearful 
neighborhood,"  shuddering  as  she  recalled  the 
maddened  gaze  of  Lancewood  on  his  last  visit. 

"But  you  forget,"  said  Clara,  "that  al 
though  Sir  Robert  Brompton  has  been  very 
kind  to  you,  yet  he  might  not  thank  you  for 
bringing  another  to  feed  upon  his  bounty. — 
Besides,  Edith,  I  am  not  so  handsome  and 
pleasing  as  you  are  and  could  not  win  friends  as 
I  know  you  could  do  anywhere." 

"  Nay,  dear  Clara,  you  need  not  fear  on  the 
subject  of  welcome.  Sir  Robert  or  Mrs.  Mar- 
low  would  befriend  any  one  at  my  solicitation 
1  know,  if,  alas !  we  could  only  see  them." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  asked  the  poor  girl, 
with  joy  beaming  from  her  expressive  face. 

"  Think  so,  Clara,  I  know  it,"  replied  Edith. 

"  You  have  told  me  so  often  of  the  kindness 
and  generosity  of  Sir  Robert  Brompton,  that 
it  seems  to  me  as  though  I  knew  him  already, 
and  the  good  Mrs.  Marlow  too.  She  must  be 
almost  an  angel,  and  Walter  Manning  I  want 
to  see  above  all  things.  Ah  !  how  fine  it 
would  be  if  I  could  see  them,  and  live  there  with 
you,  if  only  as  a  servant,  Edith,  to  wait  on 
you  and  Mrs  Marlow." 

"  Let  us  but  get  once  fairly  away  from 
here,  Clara,  and  you  shall  share  all  the  influ 
ence  I  have  with  dear,  good  Sir  Robert." 

And  thus  the  two  girls  talked  themselves 
to  sleep  one  night,  firmly  resolved  to  make 
once  more  a  careful  and  well  arranged  at 
tempt  to  escape.  We  say  once  more,  for 
though  it  was  the  first  attempt  that  Clara  had 
resolved  to  make,  yet  Edith  had  twice  failed 
in  a  like  endeavor,  made  singly,  while  Clara, 
knowing  better  than  her  companion  the  fruit- 
lessness  of  the  attempt,  had  thought  it  best  not 
to  join  her,  and  the  result  showed  her  wise 
precaution. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 


THE    FRENCHMAN'S     STORY. 


"  Ma  chere  patrie,  adieu  pour  jamais." 


THE  reader  will  once  more  come  with  us 
to  that  famed  district  of  the  great  metropolis, 
where  all  sorts  of  vice  and  villany  congregate, 
and  where  misery  and  crime  walk  hand  in 
hand. 

It  is  into  one  of  the  low  drinking  rooms 
that  are  to  be  found  at  nearly  every  other  door 
in  the  district  known  as  St.  Giles,  that  we 
wish  again  to  introduce  you.  In  its  general 
character  it  does  not  materially  differ  from  that 
wherein  our  story  opened,  and  over  which 
Mother  Giles  presided,  save  that  it  is  rather 
better  found  in  its  furniture,  and  a  man  pre 
sides  at  the  bar,  instead  of  a  woman,  the  latter 
sex  generally  performing  this  service  among 
the  lower  classes  of  London.  Transient  cus 
tomers  were  passing  in  and  out  of  the  room 
constantly;  little  half-clad  children  with  a 
few  pennies  to  purchase  gin  for  their  diseased 
and  bed-ridden  parents ;  or  now  and  then  a 
wretched  looking  man  or  woman  came  in,  and 
depositing  their  mite,  tossed  off  the  portion 
that  was  dealt  out  to  them,  and  then  perhaps 
shrugged  their  shoulders  with  satisfaction  at 
the  momentary  glow  and  warmth  that  the  fiery 
liquid  afforded,  and  once  more  sinking  into 
wretched  listlessness,  hobbled  away  with  no 
other  nourishment  for  their  bodies,  to  dream 
away  another  restless  night. 

In  a  farther  corner  of  the  apartment,  there 


sat  some  ten  men  around  a  table,  (orming  a 
very  peculiar  group.  Nearly  every  one  evinc 
ed  some  outward  token  of  his  habits  and  call-, 
ing  about  him.  Some  showed  ragged  looking 
scars  upon  their  faces ;  others  had  cut-throat 
written  there  as  plainly  as  though  it  were 
spelled  in  letters  of  print.  They  seemed  to 
be  engaged  in  a  convivial  chat  over  a  bottle  of 
"  purl,"  and  were  listening  to  stories  and 
anecdotes  from  each  other.  It  was  getting 
rather  quiet  in  the  room,  it  being  already  past 
eleven  o'clock,  and  at  the  time  we  enter  with 
the  reader,  the  party  had  just  drunk  the  health 
of  an  elderly  looking  rogue  at  the  side  of  the 
table,  who  had  just  treated  the  party  to  a 
fresh  bottle. 

"  And  you  say,  Mounseer,  that  France  is  a 
great  country  for  a  lay  ?"  asked  a  villanous 
looking  chap,  addressing  a  dapper  look  ing  lit 
tle  Frenchman,  who  sat  opposite  to  him. 

"  Ah  !  ma  foi .'"  replied  the  chevalier,  as 
those  about  him  had  more  than  once  address 
ed  him.  "it  ees  ze  ver  greate  countrey  for  vat 
you  call  ze  lay — ze  plundair — in  ze  vorld. — 
Ze  gens  d'armes — vat  you  call  ze  beaks,  ze 
polich  men — ave  ze  eye  open — aha!  c'est 
vraie — eet  ees  troo — but  'ere  nom  de  dieu ! 
vere  is  the  professeur  who  ees  not  proud  to 
risk  his  life  for  glory  or  argent — vat  you  call 
money — swag." 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


151 


"  Then  what,  I  should  like  to  know,  Moun- 
seer,"  asked  our  old  friend,  Hardhead,  who  sat 
at  the  table, "  if  France  is  such  a  bung-up  place 
as  you  brag  on,  what  made  you  cut  your  stick 
and  leave  it  ?" 

"  Cut  my  steek !  Aha  !  Je  vous  comprends 
— I  understand  you.  Ah  !  je  suis  lien  malh- 
eureuz — I  am  very  miserable.  France,  ma 
chere  patrie,  adieu  pour  jamais !  Fare  zee 
veil !  Vy  1  leave  him,  I  vill  tell  you  in  two, 
tree,  several  vords.  For  several  years,  An- 
toine  Perrault  and  my  own  self,  we  lived  to- 
gedder  a  Paris,  like  ze  nobleman.  Ve  laugh 
ed  into  de  sleeve  of  our  coat  at  ze  gens 
d'armes,  ze  judge,  ze  Prefect  of  Police.  Ze 
peps  began  to  zink  ze  very  diable,  ze  debbil 
himself,  vas  in  Paris.  No  lock  would  keep 
us  out.  Every  night  some  new  vot  you  call 
robbairee,  and  nobody  at  all  no  find  no  odder 
bodie,  vat  vas  the  robbaire.  Sometimes  de 
concierge — vat  you  call  portair  of  an  hotel — 
vas  seized  by  ze  police.  Aha  !  dat  was  very 
droll,  to  see  anudder  man  vat  had  no  finger  in 
ze  pie,  taken  to  prison  all  ze  same  as  if  he  vas 
von  voleur  robbair.  Aha  !  Antoine  and  my 
self  vve  live  en  prince — patees  a  foie  gras  and 
coted'or  tons  les  jours — every  day  some  leetle 
nise  zing  to  eat  and  drink — every  night  ze 
opera,  ze  bal  masque,  or  ze  maison  Rouge  ! — 
But,  alas  !  von  day  ze  luck  change.  Ze  gens 
d'armes — vot  you  call  ze  beak — came  on  me, 
and  I  vas  a  prisoner.  Ah  !  quel  hnrrtur.  I 
vas  sent  to  the  Bagne — ze  gallery  at  Brest — 
and  condemned  by  ze  solemn  Big  Vig  to  hard 
labor  for  life.  Shentlemeris,  if  you  saw  my 
shouldair,  you  vould  see  on  it  T.  F. — zat 
means  Travauz  Forces — forced  labor.  Aha! 
zat  miserable  Bagne  at  Brest! 

"  A  leetle  more  vat  you  callze  eau  de  vie — 
ze  gen  —s'iLvous  plait. 

"  Ah  !  diable  !  diable !  But  I  vos  luckie," 
continued  the  chevalier,  "  I  foun  a  frien' — I 
escape.  I  vas  once  more  free !  I  take  ze 
road  to  Paris.  On  ze  vay,  I  overtake  a  young 
man  who  vas  a  nias — vat  you  call  green. — 
Aha!  I  say,  some  fun  viz  him — perhaps 
some  profit.  I  find  out  all  about  him.  He 
vas  a  young  country  gentleman,  going  lo  Paris 
to  marry  a  young  girl  he  had  never  seen. — 
He  had  his  passport,  a  hundred  Napoleons, 
and  his  wedding  clothes.  By-and-by  ve  come 
to  a  very  dark  place  in  ze  road.  I  strukehim 
von  coup  de  poing — vat  you  call  fisticuff — on 


his  head,  and  drop  him  down  for  a  dead  man. 
Zen  I  take  his  clothes,  his  passport,  his  money 
and  his  horse,  and  I  go  on  to  Paris.  Ver 
veil,  I  get  my  passport  nisi — all  right.  I  am 
M.  Hippolite  St.  Muar.  I  find  out  ze  old 
gentleman  and  ze  young  girl.  Mademoi 
selle  Lizi  had  ze  beautiful  black  eye  and  ze 
beautiful  black  air,  and  ze  rose  on  ze  cheek 
and  ze  ruby — ah  !  c'etait  une  jeune  demoiselle 
charmante  !  She  fall  right  down  in  love  viz 
me,  and  she  ver  impatient  for  ze  wedding  day. 
I  no  wish  to  marry  ze  young  ladie,  but  I  vas 
forced  to  marry  ze  young  lady  for  ze  fifteen 
thousand  francs  that  was  her  dowery — aha  ! 
So  ze  day  come,  and  all  the  friena  of  Made 
moiselle  Lizi  vent  vith  us  to  Veglise — church. 
And  zere  vas  butiful  music,  an  flowers,  an 
every  zing  fine.  Ze  priest  he  stand  up  to  join 
our  ands,  ven  ha  !  diable !  in  rush  ze  gens 
d'armes,  ze  maudits  beaks,  an  ze  dead  mans, 
dat  vas  not  dead  at  all,  but  only  knocked  right 
into  ze  middle  of  ze  next  veek,  and  come  to 
life  two,  tree  day  after. 

"  Lizi  shriek  and  rush  forward.  Voila ! 
c'est  au  for  cat  I  he  is  von  escape  convict,Jcries 
ze  beak.  Zere  vas  un  brouhaha  informale — 
Lizi  tombe  evanouie — she  faint — old  gentleman 
tare  hees  hair — I  run  avay  ? — jump  thro'  de 
vindow — fly  troo  de  street.  Everybody  seem 
to  cry  diable !  le  voila.  Ze  leetle  small  pup 
py  dogs — zey  bark  an  trie  to  bite  me,  but  I 
vas  too  fast  for  ze  canaille  and  ze  chiens.  I 
reach  ze  Faubourg  St.  Antoine.  Zere  I  find 
my  caveau,  my  cellar — my  tapis  franc — vare 
I  am  safe  for  leetle  vile.  But  my  old  frien, 
Antoine  Perrault,  he  tell  me  ze  diable  to  pay 
in  Paris.  Everybody  'ave  ze  story.  Ze  gov 
ernment  offer  ze  reward  for  my  head.  Zen  I 
was  forced  to  fly.  Adieu,  ma  patrie.  I  dis 
guize  myself  voi  ze  false  visker.  I  vare  ze 
moustache.  I  am  von  Polish  count,  and  so  I 
get  out  of  ze  way  of  de  beak  and  ze  guillotine. 
As  I  cross  over  de  vatair,  I  vas  very  sea  seek 
and  home  seek,  and  ven  1  see  de  vite  cleef  of 
Dovair,  I  felt  all  ze  same  as  if  I  vas  lost.  But 
here  I  find  myself  at  home.  Here  de  voleur, 
and  de  ravageur,  and  ze  coupe-gorge,  all  ze 
same  as  in  La  Belle  France,  and  I  exclaim 
from  ze  bottom  of  ze  top  of  my  heart,  in  ze 
language  of  my  soul :  vere  ze  cracksman,  ze 
hightobyman,  and  ze  bustle  is,  zere  is  my 
country  !  And  that,  Mr.  Hardhead,  is  ze  rea 
son  vy  I  cut  my  steek  !" 


152 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  You  should  have  stole  the  pretty  girl  and 
brought  her  away  to  live  with  you,  Mounseer." 

"  No,  no,  I  will  love,  but  not  marry  ze 
ladies  always." 

"  You  needn't  marry  'em.  Now  there's 
Bill  the  Bold,  he's  got  two  cooped  up  at  his 
place." 

"  Two  ?"  asked  the  elderly  man,  who  had 
paid  for  the  last  bottle. 

"  Yes,  and  they  look  like  two  sisters, 
though  they  never  seed  each  other  till  about 
a  year  since." 

"  Where  did  he  git  'em  ?"  asked  the  other, 
rubbing  a  large  patch  which  he  wore  over  his 
eye,  as  though  the  spot  it  covered  caused  him 
no  little  pain. 

"  O,  that's  a  secret,  though  I  don't  know  in 
such  select  company  as  this,  vhy  it  can't  be 
told,  since  I  bore  a  hand  in  the  affair  myself. 
It's  all  mum,  you  understand,  covies." 

"  O,  yes,"  said  they  all. 

"  Vrell,  you  must  know,  a  pretty  girl,  by  the 
name  of  Edith  Giles — " 

"What  of  her?"  said  the  old  rogue  with 
the  big  patch  over  his  eye,  springing  to  his 
"feet,  and  approaching  the  speaker. 

"  Halloo,  vhot's  the  matter  vith  this  'ere 
cove  ?"  cried  one  of  the  party. 

"  You're  right,  comrades,  1  didn't  mean  to 
interrupt.  Well,  go  on." 

"Well,  ye  see,  this  girl  used  to  tend  on 
Mother  Giles  down  at  the  tap-room,  where 
we  used  to  rendezvous,  and  one  night  a  dozen 
of  fellows  came  there  in  force  and  took  her 
away." 

"  A  dozen  ?"  asked  the  man  with  the  patch. 

"  More  or  less,  it  matters  little  how  many  ; 
at  any  rate,  there  were  half  a  dozen  heads 
broken  that  night,  and  the  girl  was  carried 
off.  Well,  about  a  year  after  that,  there  was 
a  lay  proposed,  and  I  and  Bill  was  to  carry  it 
out  with  one  of  the  boys,  for  an  opener. — 
Well,  we  got  into  the  house,  one  of  the  best 
in  town,  and  after  lookin'  in  vain  for  the  plate, 
we  found  in  one  of  the  chambers,  this  girl 
Edith,  all  comfortable  like  a  lady.  But  how 
she  corned  there,  we  never  knowed.  Well, 
Bill  was  sort  of  smitten  with  the  gal,  and  to 
tell  the  truth,  she  was  mighty  handsom',  and 
he  determined  to  bring  her  away,  and  so  we 
did,  and  a  heavy  job  and  little  profit  it  was  to 
me,  as  Bill  he  took  her,  and  keeps  her  shut 
up  at  his  place." 


"  Where's  that  ?"  asked  he  with  the  patch. 

"  Way  over  at  the  river  side  of  Moorhead." 

"  As  far  out  as  that  ?" 

"  Ay,  Bill  got  tired  of  St.  Giles  ;  he  said  it 
was  dangerous." 

"  Look  here,  Hardhead,"  said  he  with  the 
patch.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  With  all  my  'art.  I'm  allers  open  to  con- 
wiction." 

Saying  this  the  two  withdrew  to  one  side 
alone,  where  a  low  conversation  was  held  be 
tween  them,  in  which  it  was  very  evident  that 
he  with  the  patch  was  planning  a  visit  to  Bill 
the  Bold's  house.  Hardhead  said  he  had  just 
had  a  falling  out  with  Bill,  and  so  he  wouldn't 
go  no  how.  "  Well,  you  might  show  me 
where  it  is.  I  don't  care  to  have  you  go  there 
if  you  don't  choose,"  said  the  other,  and  as  both 
were  going  in  that  direction  by-and-by,  Hard 
head  concluded  there  would  be  no  harm  in 
showing  a  comrade  where  Bill  lived,  though 
he  wouldn't  call  himself,  since  Bill  had  blam 
ed  him  for  something,  though  he  took  oc 
casion  to  say  that  Bill  was  away,  he  believed, 
for  a  day  or  so  just  now. 

A  careful  observer  would  have  noticed  that 
the  man  who  wore  the  patch  was  acting  the 
part  of  a  masquerader,  and  that  there  was  one 
other  of  the  company,  between  whom  and 
himself  there  were  frequent  interchanges  of 
intelligence. 

The  bottle  circulated  pretty  freely,  until  an 
hour  more  had  passed,  making  it  twelve 
o'clock,  when  Hardhead,  being  pretty  well 
softened  with  the  gin  he  had  drunk,  declared 
that  he  must  bid  them  good  night,  and  that 
as  there  was  no  lay  on  hand,  he  was  going 
home  to  roost  like  a  quiet  and  respectable  fowl. 
He  with  the  big  patch  over  his  eye,  and  his 
companion,  of  whom  we  have  just  spoken,  also 
bade  the  company  good  night,  after  pledging 
them  all  in  a  bumper,  and  withdrew  with 
Hardhead.  The"  three  walked  rapidly,  but 
gently  forward  for  some  time,  scarcely  inter 
changing  a  word,  for  Hardhead  was  half 
stupified  in  his  brain  with  liquor,  and  the  oth 
er  two  had  seemed  all  the  evening  to  be  play 
ing  the  part  of  listeners,  rather  than  talking 
themselves.  At  last  they  came  to  the  nor 
thern  outskirts  of  the  city,  and  soon  after, 
Hardhead  told  them  that  he  took  another 
road,  but  that  if  they  wanted  to  see  Bill,  they 
would  find  his  house,  the  big  one  on  the  right 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


153 


hand,  just  after  turning  into  the  next  street, 
and  thus  they  parted  in  a  dark  and  dreary 
spot. 

Scarcely  had  the  separation  fairly  taken 
place,  when  the  appearance  and  manner  of 
the  two  who  had  left  the  drinking  room  with 
Hardhead,  were  essentially  changed.  Though 
the  elder  of  the  two  still  walked  lame,  yet  he  no 
longer  stooped.  His  cap  was  thrown  off  his 
face,  and  the  dirty  patch  was  removed  from 
the  eye !  His  companion  underwent  a  simi 
lar  metamorphosis,  though  not  quite  so  decid 
ed  a  one,  and  had  there  been  any  one  there 
who  knew  them,  they  might  now  have  easily 
recognized  Sir  Robert  Brompton  and  Walter 
Manning. 

"  This  must  be  the  house,  Walter ;  now 
mark  it  well ;  for  to-night  is  no  time  for  our 
purpose  j  and  yet  I  can  hardly  restrain  my  im 
patience,  now  I  find  myself  once  more  so  near 
to  that  dear  girl !" 

"  I  could  tell  the  spot  a  hundred  years 
hence,"  said  Walter,  who,  though  he  said 
nothing  of  his  impatience,  yet  evinced  it  most 
unmistakably  even  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  as 
he  spoke. 

They  walked  silently  about  the  old  build 
ing,  marking  well  its  position  and  the  locality 
about  it,  and  did  not  seem  disposed  to  leave 
the  spot  for  more  than  an  hour.  At  last  Sir 
Robert  said : 

"  We  may  as  well  make  our  way  back,  and 
sleep  upon  this.  Our  plan  must  be' well  ma 
tured,  and  put  in  force  if  possible  either  dur 
ing  daylight,  or  at  least  in  early  evening." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Walter,  looking  back 
many  times  as  they  walked  away  from  the 
spot. 

"  Walter,  we  must  not  lisp  a  word  of  this 
matter,  for  you  know  as  yet  our  information 
is  precarious,  though  it  is  impossible  that 
Hardhead  could  mean  any  other  person  than 
Edith." 

"  I  shall  be  as  silent  as  the  grave,  Sir  Rob 
ert  ;  depend  upon  it." 

"  If  Mrs.  Marlow  asks  what  success  we 
have  met  with,  let  the  same  answer  as  we 
have  given  her  heretofore  suffice." 

"  I  understand,  Sir  Robert." 

And  thus  interchanging  a  few  words  now 
and  then  in  this  manner,  they  hurried  forward 
until  at  last  they 'entered  Sir  Robert's  house. 
Not  to  sleep — neither  of  them  could  do  that — 


for  the  search  of  a  year,  in  quest  of  a  beloved 
object,  was  about  to  come  to  a  successful  close, 
at  least  so  they  presumed  in  the  excitement, 
and  the  daylight  surprised  them  both  calculat 
ing  in  what  way  they  should  attempt  Edith's 
release.  Sir  Robert  was  exceedingly  averse 
to  employing  the  police,  because  that  at  once 
rendered  Edith's  whole  story  public,  which  he 
seemed  particularly  anxious  to  avoid.  But  he 
had  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  character  of 
Bill  the  Bold,  or  Lancewood,  from  his  com 
panions,  and  once  or  twice  he  had  met  him  in 
disguise.  He  knew  that  no  ordinary  means 
would  suffice,  if  this  man  should  suspect  and 
oppose  him  before  he  could  effect  an  en 
trance  into  the  house.  All  these  matters  were 
duly  considered  and  talked  over  by  Sir  Rob 
ert  and  Walter.  The  latter  urged  the  pro 
priety,  under  the  circumstances,  of  employing 
a  small  number  of  police,  as  the  surest  mode. 

Sir  Robert  seemed  to  have  urgent  reasons 
for  desiring  to  co'hduct  the  affair  secretly,  and 
without  calling  in  the  aid  of  the  authorities, 
though  Walter  insisted  that  otherwise  there 
were  ten  chances  to  one  that  they  might  fail, 
and  then  if  Edith  was  really  there,  those  who 
had  her  in  charge  would  take  care  to  place 
her  beyond  the  danger  of  a  second  attack,  and 
thus  they  might  lose  sight  of  her  forever. — 
"  Still,  Sir  Robert,"  said  Walter,  "  do  as  you 
think  best,  and  you  may  count  upon  being 
backed  by  one  who  will  stand  by  you,  let 
what  may  come  of  the  adventure." 

"  But,  I  tell  you,  Walter,  I  do  not  wish  to 
make  the  affair  public.  I  am  particularly  de 
sirous  to  have  it  otherwise." 

"  A  half  dozen  police  might  be  well  feed, 
and  detailed  with  a  seret  warrant,  not  even 
knowing  what  they  went  there  for  them 
selves." 

"  That's  true  ;  egad,  it  might  be  managed 
in  some  such  way  as  that." 

"  We  should  be  with  them,  and  rould  man 
age  our  part  of  the  business  as  we  please,  and 
if  Edith  is  there,  take  her  quietly  away  while 
the  police  are  preventing  any  interference  on 
the  part  of  those  who  belong  to  the  house." 

"  I  think  this  can  be  managed,  and  per 
haps  better  done  in  this  way  than  in  any  oth 
er.  I  know  the  Lieutenant  of  Police  at  Hoi- 
burn,  for  the  eastern  division,  and  I  will  see 
this  morning  what  I  can  do  in  the  matter,  and 
before  night  we  will  make  the  attempt." 


154 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  I  am  all  impatience  Sir  Robert,  and  shall 
think  of  nothing  else  until  Edith  is  once  more 
safe  within  these  walls,"  said  Walter. 

Sir  Robert  adopted  this  plan  and  before 
evening,  had  organized  a  small  party  of  po 
lice,  who  had  particular  instructions  to  follow 
his  directions  in  all  things,  and  being  supplied 
with  a  secret  warrant  in  due  form,  signed  and 
sealed,  the  party  rendezvoused  at  a  certain 
house  at  a  spot  near  the  premises,  where  they 
met  in  accordance  with  the  appointment,  and 
proceeded  to  demand  an  entrance  upon  the 
premises. 

It  was  just  about  dark  when  the  police  de 
manded  admittance,  which  after  some  delay 
was  granted  by  the  woman  referred  to  as 
Lancewood's  companion.  Seeing  that  resist 
ance  was  of  no  use,  the  woman  submitted 
with  the  best  grace  she  might,  and  observed 
the  search  of  the  officers  in  a  surly  and  moody 
silence,  not  deigning  to  answer  one  of  their 
questions,  though  she  said  "  if  her  man  was 
at  home,  there  would  be  some  broken  heads 
amongst  them  !" 

In  their  eagerness,  Sir  Robert  and  Walter 
searched"  every  nook  and  corner  from  garret 
to  kitchen,  but  they  found  no  sign  of  Edith. 
As  to  the  woman,  neither  threats  nor  money 
could  elicit  aught  from  her;  she  was  experi 
enced  in  villany,  and  knew  too  much  to  com 
mit  herself  in  any  way,  realizing  that  the  sur 
est  way  not  to  do  this  was  to  remain  perfectly 
silent,  as  though  she  were  deaf  and  dumb. 

Both  Sir  Robert  and  Walter  several  times 
passed  through  the  two  rooms  that  we  have 
already  referred  to,  and  where  Edith  and 
Clara  had  been  so  long  shut  up  together,  but 
they  found  no  sign  of  them,  or  rather  of 
Edith,  for  it  was  she  alone  that  they  sought. 
It  seemed  as  though  Sir  Robert's  heart  would 
sink  within  his  breast  at  this  disappointment. 
He  had  felt  sure  of  finding  his  lost  protegee 
until  now,  and  Walter,  who  was  also  greatly 
disappointed,  could  not  but  pause  to  pity  the 
look  of  woe  upon  Sir  Robert's  face. 

"  We  seem  to  have  come  on  a  fruitless 
search  this  time,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant  of  the 
police  to  Sir  Robert. 

"  Yes,  I  fear  so,"  he  replied,  "  and  yet  I 
had  good  reason  to  believe  my  suspicions  cor 
rect." 

"  Ah,  sir,  these  people  are  very  cunning ; 


they  probably  expected  you,  and  took  care  of 
matters." 

"  Possibly,  that  may  be  the  case,"  replied 
Sir  Robert,  seeming  to  gain  satisfaction  from 
the  idea. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  suppose  you  have  no  further 
occasion  for  our  services  ?"  said  the  sergeant. 

"  No.  It  will  be  of  no  use  to  remain  here 
any  longer,"  replied  Sir  Robert. 

The  man  turned  to  go  away  with  his  com 
panions,  when  Sir  Robert  recalled  him,  and 
placing  a  handful  of  sovereigns  in  his  hand, 
told  him  to  share  the  sum  with  his  fellows, 
and  name  his  thanks  for  their  vigilance  and 
promptness. 

Sir  Robert  and  Walter  turned  their  steps 
with  heavy  hearts  towards  their  home. 

Since  the  fearful  night  when  Edith  had 
been  stolen  away,  it  is  doubtful  if  a  single  day 
or  night  had  passed  in  which  Sir  Robert 
Brompton  and  Walter  Manning  had  not  been 
engaged  in  vain  endeavors  to  unravel  the 
mystery  of  her  loss,  and  to  discover  her  pres 
ent  place  of  confinement.  They  did  not  for 
a  moment  suspect  Edith  of  voluntarily  absent 
ing  herself.  They  fully  realized  that  she 
must  be  forcibly  detained  wherever  she  might 
be,  or  else  her  own  inclinations  would  lead  her 
back  once  more  to  the  protection  of  her  new 
home  and  friends.  All  manner  of  ingenious 
devices  were  set  on  foot  to  solve  the  mystery, 
and  to  obtain  the  desired  information.  Per 
sons  who  might  be  relied  upon  were  employ 
ed  from  one  week's  end  to  another,  at  a  most 
lavish  cost,  while  Walter  and  Sir  Robert  were 
making  personal  exertions  night  and  day. — 
Disguised  as  we  have  seen,  they  frequented 
the  tap-rooms  and  low  resorts  of  the  worst 
part  of  the  town,  to  see  if  chance  would  not  at 
last  throw  some  light  upon  the  matter  in  this 
quarter  from  whence  the  scheme  must  have 
emanated. 

But  until  the  evening  which  we  have  just 
described,  they  had  never  been  able  to  obtain 
the  least  clue  to  unravel  the  mystery,  and  now, 
alas!  that  had  failed  them,  though  Sir  Robert 
hoped  yet  to  be  able  to  improve  this  hint  as 
to  Edith's  fate  to  some  good  end,  though  at 
the  first  step  he  had  been  so  signally  thwart 
ed.  But  Walter  thought  he  had  never  seen 
him  so  much  depressed  and  borne  down,  and 
he  made  bold  to  attempt  to  cheer  him. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 


THE   SUBTERRANEAN    PASSAGE. 


You  reach  a  chilling  chamber,  where  you  dread 
Damps.  CRABB'S  BROUGH. 


IN  order  to  show  the  reader  why  Sir  Robert 
was  not  able  to  find  Edith  and  her  companion, 
we  must  return  to  the  house  where  they  had 
so  long  been  confined,  and  once  more  observe 
them  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  purpose  they 
had  formed  to  escape. 

At  the  rear  of  the  building  that  the  burglar 
had  made  his  headquarters,  there  was  a  narrow 
yard  surrounded  by  a  fence  which  was  not  by 
any  means  an  insurmountable  barrier,  provided 
that  Clara  and  Edith  had  dared  to  attempt  it. 
But  the  fact  was,  Lance  wood  kept  a  fierce  bull 
dog  on  his  premises,  and  the  animal  roamed  this 
yard  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night,  train 
ed  to  seize  upon  any  person  who  entered  the 
yard,  no  matter  for  what  purpose,  and  being 
kept  half  starved  by  his  owner,  he  was  a  most 
formidable  enemy  to  encounter.  The  fierce 
creature  would  make  friends  with  no  one  but 
his  master,  and  though  he  sometimes  received 
bits  of  food  and  remnants  from  her  own  scan 
ty  meal,  from  Clara  with  avidity,  yet  it  was 
oftener  with  a  surly  growl,  than  a  grateful 
wag  of  his  tail,  and  he  seemed  to  delight  in 
showing  every  one  the  immense  teeth  that 
filled  his  mouth.  This  being  unfortunately 
the  case,  aside  from  any  other  fear  as  it  re 


garded  detection,  the  poor  girls  knew  very 
well  that  an  encounter  with  the  dog  might 
cost  them  their  lives  on  the  spot,  should  they 
attempt  to  escape  by  the  back  of  the  house 
through  the  yard. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  house  were  neither 
windows  nor  door,  and  to  reach  the  front 
yard  opening  upon  the  street,  they  would  have 
to  pass  through  the  room  occupied  by  the 
woman  who  kept  the  house,  and  where  Lance- 
wood  himself%  slept.  There  were  two  win 
dows  in  the  side  room  which  they  hadsaccess 
to,  but  these  were  always  fastened  even  in  the 
day-time,  so  securely  that  they  were  unyield 
ing  to  any  ingenuity  of  effort  that  they  could 
bring  to  bear  upon  them.  These  /windows 
had  at  times  been  looked  most  wistfully  upon, 
but  up  to  this  period  had  entirely  baffled  their 
attempts  upon  them.  Thus  situated,  the 
young  girls  seemed  to  be  as  securely  imprison 
ed  as  though  they  had  been  confined  in  New 
gate  itself,  and  the  barriers  opposed  to  their 
escape  were  as  difficult  for  them  to  overcome 
as  they  would  be  in  that  famed  place  of  con 
finement.  The  windows  to  which  we  have 
referred,  seemed  to  them  to  afford  the  most 
tangible  mode  of  escape,  though  to  effect  this 


156 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


and  overcome  the  difficulty  presented  in  the 
strongly  barred  shutters  and  heavy  bolt  fas 
tenings  ingeniously  contrived,  they  must  pos 
sess  themselves  of  better  instruments  for 
operating  than  they  could  then  command. 

With  this  conviction,  they  sought  aa  quietly 
as  possible  among  the  lumber  and  old  rubbish 
of  the  store  room  where  they  slept,  for  some 
strong  piece  of  hard  wood  or  bit  of  iron  that 
might  serve  them  as  a  sort  of  pry  or  lever  to 
wrench  off  the  hinges  and  other  fastenings 
that  so  effectually  secured  the  windows.  This 
search  involved  the  removal  of  many  a  heavy 
piece  of  lumber,  besides  various  other  articles 
and  rubbish  of  all  sorts,  but  they  worked 
patiently,  confidently  expecting  to  find  some 
such  article  beneath  the  heap  as  would  an 
swer  their  purpose.  On  the  afternoon  subse 
quent  to  the  day  upon  which  they  had  made 
up  their  minds  as  to  an  attempt  to  escape, 
while  they  were  both  engaged  in  the  search 
among  the  lumber  and  rubbish,  Clara  stooped 
to  pick  up  a  small  iron  ring  that  she  discovered 
upon  the  floor,  and  found  to  her  surprise  that 
it  was  apparently  fastened  to  the  floor,  so  that 
she  could  not  raise  it.  But  at  last  their  united 
efforts  accomplished  this,  and  to  their  astonish 
ment  they  raised  also  a  square  board  of  some 
two  feet  in  width  and  three  in  length,  that 
was  fastened  by  hinges,  and  which  seemed  to 
open  into  the  very  bowels  of  the  earth.  It 
grated  harshly  upon  its  rust-eaten  hinges,  and 
seemed  to  give  forth  ominous  and  foreboding 
sounds  to  the  ears  of  the  startled  girls. 

The  two  looked  at  each  other  in  astonish 
ment  for  a  moment,  without  speaking. 

"Shut  it  up,  Clara,"  said  her  .companion, 
at  length ;  "  how  very  damp  and  chilling  the 
air  pours  up  from  below.  It  may  be  some 
horrid  pestilential  vault,  where  dead  bodies 
have  been  secreted  !" 

"Perhaps  not,  Edith,"  said  her  more  cour 
ageous  friend.  "  Who  knows  but  that  by 
means  of  this  trap  door  we  may  find  some 
passage  away  from  the  house  that  is  unguard 
ed,  and  by  which  we  may  yet  escape  ?" 

"  It  is  fearful  even  to  look  into  it,"  said 
Edith,  surveying  the  dark  cavity  with  an  in 
voluntary  shudder,  "  and  how  very  terrible  it 
would  be  to  go  down  there,  not  knowing 
where  it  leads,  or  what  it  might  bring  us  to 
at  last !" 

"  I  do  not  fear  to  go  down,"  said  the   fair 


young  girl,  while  her  beautiful  eyes  sparkled 
with  spirit  and  animation.  "  What  have  we 
to  fear,  Edith  ?  I  will  go  first,  and  you  shall 
follow  me." 

"  But  we  must  have  a  light,  or  we  shall  be 
lost  at  once  in  the  darkness,  and  not  be  able 
ever  to  find  our  way  back  again,  if  that  should 
be  desirable,"  said  Edith. 

"  That  is  true." 

"  We  can  easily  get  a  lamp." 

"  But  what  time  should  you  think  it  was 
now,  Edith  ?" 

"  It  is  nearly  night — about  the  time  that 
Lancewood  frequently  comes  in,  and  looks 
about  the  rooms  and  stares  at  us  so  oddly." 

"  Then  we  will  close  this  trap  door,  shall 
we  not,  for  the  present  ?" 

"  What  for  ?" 

"  Why,  until  he  has  gone." 

"  0,  no,  if  we  are  to  go  down,  let  us  do  so 
at  once.  I  shall  then  escape  the  sight  of  his 
fearful  eyes  which  look  so  strangely  and  wild 
ly  upon  me,"  said  Edith,  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  vision 
that  her  own  words  aroused. 

"  Well,  if  you  think  best,  we  will  go  now. 
You  throw  this  shawl  about  your  head  and 
shoulders,"  said  Clara,  offering  her  a  misera 
ble  apology  for  the  article  named.  "  I  will 
light  the  lamp,  and  be  ready  in  a  moment." 

"  But  what  will  you  wear,  Clara  ?" 

"  1  shall  not  want  anything." 

"  But  I  will  not  take  this  away  from  you." 

"  0,  never  mind  me,"  said  the  generous  girl, 
"  I  am  hardier  than  you  are." 

Edith  would  not  take  the  proffered  garment 
until  another  piece  of  torn  cloth  that  was  used 
upon  the  bed,  was  brought  to  answer  the  same 
purpose  for  Clara.  The  lamp  was  found  at 
last,  after  Clara  had  succeeded  in  striking  a 
light  by  means  of  a  tinder  box,  and  it  discov 
ered  to  them  a  flight  of  half  dilapidated  wood 
en  steps,  that  were  decayed  and  covered  with 
mould  by  the  operation  of  the  dampness,  and 
slimy  vapors  that  seemed  to  pour  up  in  al 
most  suffocating  density  in  their  very  faces. 
With  a  particular  caution  to  her  companion  to 
tread  carefully,  lest  she  should  slip  and  fall 
upon  the  damp  steps,  Clara  slowly  led  the  way, 
descending  she  knew  not  whither.  But  scarce 
ly  had  they  descended  a  single  step  before  the 
light  was  extinguished,  the  cold  current  of  air 
setting  up  from  below  proving  too  strong  for 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


157 


its  weak  flame  to  withstand.  Both  returned 
at  once  to  the  room,  hardly  knowing  what  to 
do.  A  second  attempt  must  of  course  prove 
as  fatal  as  before  ;  if  they  took  the  lamp  into 
that  cold  current  of  air,  it  must  go  out. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  Clara  ?" 

"Go  without  it,"  suggested  Clara. 

"  That  would  be  impossible." 

"  Stay,  there  is  that  broken  lantern  in  the 
side  room,  I'll  get  that." 

'-  That  will  be  just  what  we  want  to  shelter 
the  candle  from  the  wind." 

Thus  reinforced,  they  commenced  once  more 
to  descend  the  damp  and  slippery  steps  through 
the  trap  door.  The  darkness  was  so  dense 
that  they  could  only  see  a  few  steps  before 
them ;  but  down,  down  they  went,  slowly  but 
without  stopping  for  nearly  twenty  feet,  when 
Clara  paused,  remembering  that  they  had  left 
the  trap  door  above  them  open.  She  saw  in 
a  moment  the  importance  of  closing  that  be 
hind  them  at  all  hazards.  If  Lancewood  should 
happen  to  come  in  and  find  it  open,  he  would 
instantly  comprehend  by  what  means  they  had 
escaped,  and  follow  them  at  once,  and  perhaps 
overtake  and  bring  them  back  again.  She 
told  Edith  of  this,  and  said  that  she  would 
go  back  and  close  it,  while  she  should  remain 
with  the  light  where  she  was  ;  and  crowding 
by  the  trembling  form  of  her  less  courageous 
companion  upon  the  narrow  steps,  she  once 
more  ascended  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and 
closed  the  door  over  her  head,  even  taking 
the  precaution  to  lay  the  ring  into  the  groove 
that  was  cut  out  for  it,  and  which  would  par 
tially  hide  it ;  then  she  returned  again  to  lead 
the  way  in  that  dismal  place.  Even  the  courage 
of  the  brave  little  Clara  began  to  yield  at  the 
hoarse  gusts  of  damp  air  that  played  about 
their  ears,  and  whistled  wild  and  mournfully 
through  the  steps  and  about  them  in  all  direc 
tions. 

The  last  step  brought  them  both  nearly  to 
their  ankles  in  water,  but  after  pausing  for  a 
moment  they  seemed  to  gain  fresh  courage  and 
resolution,  determining  to  explore  the  place, 
at  all  hazards,  and  satisfy  themselves  as  to 
whether  it  could  afford  them  any  means  of 
escape,  now  they  had  gone  so  far.  As  they 
went  on  slowly  groping  their  way,  they  found 
that  the  water  decreased  in  depth,  and  they 
were  soon  again  on  the  dry  earth,  showing 
that  a  sinking  of  the  ground  about  the  base 


of  the  steps  had  caused  the  water  to  gather 
there,  and  it  was  into  this  that  they  had  first 
stepped.  After  becoming  somewhat  accustomed 
to  the  singular  darkness  and  the  effect  of  the 
lantern  upon  it,  they  discovered  that  the  place 
which  they  were  in  was  a  sort  of  narrow 
vault,  having  the  appearance  of  being  a  pas 
sage  leading  to  some  distant  opening  evident 
ly  undermining  the  neighboring  houses,  and 
perhaps  opening  presently  by  another  trap 
door?  up  into  some  room  of  a  house  equally 
to  be  dreaded  by  them,  with  that  which  had 
so  long  been  their  prison,  and  which  they 
had  ROW  left  for  the  first  time  in  a  year's 
space. 

"  Clara,  where  is  your  hand  ?  It  is  very 
dark  and  dreary  here." 

"  It  is  indeed,"  replied  Clara,  drawing  close 
to  her  friend. 

"  Perhaps  we  are  going  to  a  worse  place 
than  we  have  left,  Clara." 

"And  perhaps,  Edith,  we  are  already  half 
free  ;  think  of  that." 

"  Heaven  grant  that  it  may  prove  so,"  re 
plied  Edith. 

It  grew  gloomier  and  narrower  as  they 
went  on,  until  both  at  last  paused,  and  seri 
ously  considered  as  to  whether  they  should 
not  turn  back  again  rather  than  go  on  any 
further  with  such  an  uncertain  purpose,  but 
they  both  were  so  strongly  impressed  with  the 
desire  for  escape,  that  they  resolved  to  keep 
on  at  least  for  a  little  longer.  The  passage 
was  stoned  all  about  them,  and  even  over 
head,  the  upper  work  being  supported  by  fre 
quent  blocks  of  stone  placed  at  intervals  along 
the  way,  showing  that  much  labor  and  cost 
had  been  expended  to  form  the  passage,  which, 
however  important  it  might  once  have  been, 
was  now  evidently  forgotten  and  unimproved. 
Chilled  through  by  the  searching  dampness, 
and  a  current  of  keen  air  that  seemed  to  set 
directly  into  their  faces  with  almost  malicious 
force,  they  increased  their  steps  that  they 
might  the  quicker  settle  their  fears  and 
doubts,  either  for  good  or  evil.  But  Clara, 
who  carried  the  lamp,  unfortunately  in  her 
eagerness  tripped  her  foot  against  some  obsta 
cle,  and  falling  herself,  also  dropped  the  lan 
tern,  which  was  instantly  broken  into  a 
thousand  pieces,  and  the  candle  itself  was 
extinguished.  What  a  fearful  situation  for  the 
poor  fugitives  !  To  return  was  impossible, 


158 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


and  to  go  on   seemed   to  them  to  be  equally 
so.     They  knew  not  what  to  do. 
4"How   unfortunate   this  is,"   said  Edith; 
"  the  light  was  our  only  safeguard." 

«'  And  I  have  broken  the  lantern  by  my 
carelessness,"  said  Clara,  sadly. 

"  You  could  not  help  it,  and  are  not  to 
blame,"  said  her  companion,  kindly. 

Taking  each  other  by  the  hand  once  more, 
they  slowly  groped  their  way  forward  through 
the  intense  darkness,  still  hoping  they  might 
come  at  last  to  some  place  that  would  afford 
them  light.  Until  now  Clara  had  seemed  to 
be  the  most  courageous  of  the  two,  and  had 
taken  the  lead,  but  soon  her  heart  failed  her, 
and  she  trembled,  while  with  Edith,  in  propor 
tion  as  the  hopelessness  of  their  situation  in 
creased,  so  her  spirits  and  mental  power  seem 
ed  to  rise  to  meet  the  contingency.  It  was 
now  her  turn  to  offer  encouraging  and  consol 
ing  words  to  Clara,  and  to  cheer  her  still  to 
hope  for  the  best,  and  so  they  still  moved 
cautiously  forward.  At  last,  however,  both 
became  almost  completely  exhausted  by  ex 
citement  and  exertion,  and  having  drawn  as 
near  together  as  possible,  Edith  proposed  that 
they  should  kneel  down  and  pray.  All  was 
black  and  dark  about  them.  0,  how  fearfully 
dark  it  seemed  to  the  hearts  of  the  poor 
young  girls.  Edith  had  taught  Clara  to 
pray,  and  now  upon  the  damp  cold  ground 
they  knelt  down  side  by  side,  in  that  strange 
subterranean  passage,  and  lifted  up  their 
voices  to  the  God  of  the  oppressed  and  father 
less,  who  hears  his  children,  no  matter  how 
deeply  hidden  they  may  be  in  stone  walls, 
and  whose  eye  beholdeth  them,  no  matter 
how-far  they  be  beneath  the  earth's  surface. 
They  had  remained  thus  for  some  time,  when 
Edith  lifted  her  sweet  but  trembling  voice, 
and  prayed  for  light,  0  how  fervently  !  They 
rose  from  their  kneeling  posture,  for  the  damp 
ness  was  chilling  them  more  and  more  every 
moment,  and  again  they  turned  their  faces,  to 
struggle  on  for  a  little  space  farther,  when,  as 
though  their  prayer  had  been  heard  and  mirac 
ulously  answered  at  once,  as  they  both  looked 
forward,  they  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy 
and  surprise  to  see  the  faint  glimmering  of  a 
light  in  the  distance,  small,  but  yet  most  dis 
tinctly  visible. 

"  0,  God  be  praised,"  ejaculated  Edith,  as 
she  beheld  this  ray  of  hope. 


"  Our  prayer  was  heard,  and  answered ;  I 
feel  now  that  all  will  be  well." 

"  I  already  feel  strange,  do  not  you,  Clara  ?" 
asked  her  companion. 

"  Indeed,  yes,  since  there  is  that  light  in 
view,  we  may  hope  for  the  best." 

How  their  hearts  leaped  for  joy  !  They 
wept  and  embraced  each  other  for  joy,  prompt 
ed  by  the  excess  of  delight  that  now  possessed 
them.  With  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  little 
faint  ray  of  hope,  they  struggled  on  patiently, 
though  already  so  nearly  overcome  with  fear 
and  exertion.  Step  by  step  they  gained  on 
the  light  that  shone  in  the  distance,  until  the 
passage  was  narrowed  so  much  at  a  certain 
point,  that  they  were  compelled  to  stop  as 
they  went  on,  and  finally  to  almost  creep  in 
their  forward  movement,  until  they  finally 
emerged  from  the  passage  at  a  secluded  and 
sheltered  spot  upon  the  waters  of  the  river 
Thames.  The  singular  excavation  which 
they  had  traversed  was  doubtless  one  of  those 
celebrated  smuggling  caves'  that  abounded 
upon  the  river's  bank  in  the  sixteenth  century. 
Though  delighted  beyond  measure  at  the  par 
tial  success  that  now  dawned  upon  them,  still 
the  two  girls  fully  realized  that  they  were  very 
far  from  being  out  of  immediate  danger,  for 
they  were  in  one  of  the  very  worst  districts 
of  all  London,  among  the  river  robbers,  and 
low-lived  boatmen. 

Besides  this,  neither  knew  which  route  to 
take  in  order  to  reach  that  section  of  the  city 
which  Edith  was  so  desirous  to  find,  and  where 
Sir  Robert  Brompton's  hospitable  house  was 
located,  and  in  their  fear  they  were  afraid  to 
ask  any  one  they  saw,  lest  it  should  but  open 
the  way  to  injury  and  insult.  It  was  so  long 
since  they  had  been  at  liberty  in  the  streets, 
that  they  felt  lost  there,  and  seemed  quite  un 
decided  as  to  what  they  should  do  in  this 
emergency.  They,  however,  turned  their 
steps  towards  what  appeared  to  them  to  be  the 
most  populous  part  of  the  city,  and  hurried  on, 
as  best  they  might. 

Dressed  as  they  were  in  the  coarsest  man 
ner,  Edith  felt  that  if  she  were  to  inquire  the 
way  to  the  residence  and  street  where  Sir 
Robert  lived,  she  would  most  likely  only  be 
jeered  and  laughed  at,  as  no  one  would  be 
lieve,  with  the  appearance  she  presented,  that 
she  could  have  any  business  that  would  call 
her  into  such  a  neighborhood.  Reasoning 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


159 


very  correctly  in  this  way,  Edith  inquired  the 
way  to  Charing  Cross,  where  she  was  compar 
atively  acquainted  with  the  localities,  and 
from  whence  she  felt  confident  that  she  could 
find  the  way  with  ease  to  the  house  of  her  kind 
benefactor.  But  it  was  already  quite  late  to 
be  abroad  and  unprotected,  more  especially  in 
the  district  where  they  still  were  ;  indeed  it 
was  in  the  densest  portion  of  St.  Giles  that 
Edith  and  Clara  inquired  the  way  to  Charing 
Cross,  and  both  the  girls  realized  the  critical 
situation  in  which  they  were  placed,  half  fear 
ing  that  some  friend  of  Lancewood's  who  had 
seen  them,  might  now  recognize  and  detain 
them  once  more.  It  was  such  thoughts  and 
fears  as  these  that  caused  the  poor  girls,  tired 
and  exhausted  as  they  were,  to  hurry  forward 
with  no  measured  step.  Indeed  more  than 
once,  when  they  believed  themselves  unob 
served,  they  ran  half  the  length  of  a  street  or 
square,  then  walked  on  again  nearly  out  of 
breath. 

At  last  it  seemed  as  though  their  limbs 
would  give  way  beneath  them,  and  Edith 
leaned  for  a  moment  against  the  side  of  a 
house  for  support,  while  she  held  her  aching 
sides  with  both  her  hands,  and  panted  like  an 
affrighted  bird. 

"  You  have  no  money,  I  suppose,  Clara  ?" 
she  asked  of  her  companion. 

"  Not  a  penny." 

"  O,  how  unfortunate  that  I  have  not  a  tri 
fle,  now,"  she  sighed. 

"What  for?" 

"  If  we  could  only  get  into  this  hackney- 
coach,"  she  answered,  "  we  might  be  carried 
in  a  few  moments  directly  to  Sir  Robert 
Brompton's  house.  It  does  not  seem  as  if  I 
could  walk  any  further.  Besides,  Clara,  how 
we  both  look  to  be  in  the  streets  in  this  dress. 
There  too  are  those  young  men  who  have  fol 
lowed  us  from  the  last  corner ;  how  boisterous 
they  are." 

"  I  have  nothing  of  any  value  to  give  the 
coachman,"  said  Clara. 

"  Stay,"  said  Edith,  "  I  remember.  Here's 
a  plain  gold  ring  that  I  have  kept  upon  my 
ringer  ever  since  that  horrid  night,  when  f  left 
my  dear  friends  at  Sir  Robert's.  I'll  try  if  the 
coachman  will  carry  us  for  that." 

"  We  want  to  go  to  -  —  Square,"  said 
Edith  approaching  the  man,  and  not  having  any 
money,  I  will  give  you  this  ring  if  you  will 


carry  us  there  at  once.     Wont  you  de  it? 
I'll  bless  you  if  you  will,  from  my  very  heart." 

The  man  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  sur 
prise  at  the  singular  proposition,  and  read  in 
Edith's  eyes  such  an  imploring  look,  that  he 
seemed  to  change  in  his  whole  appearance  and 
bearing  towards  her. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  go  there  for,  young 
woman,  eh  ?"  he  asked. 

"  O,  I  have  friends  there,  and  I  am  very 
weak  and  ill,  wont  you  carry  us  ?" 

The'  man  was  a  rough  but  honest  Irishman, 
by  his  appearance,  and  seemed  to  study  the 
appearance  of  the  girl  for  a  moment  as  if  to 
satisfy  himself  that  he  was  not  being  deceived, 
and  then  said  : 

"  Is  that  all  the  means  you've  got  to  give  for 
the  ride,  eh  ?" 

"  It  is  all  1  have." 

"  And  you're  not  guying  me  ?" 

"  0  no,  upon  my  word  I  speak  honestly." 

"  Well,  never  mind  the  ring,"  said  the  rough 
driver,  "  get  in,  my  good  girls,  get  in." 

"  You  will  not  take  the  ring?" 

"  Niver  a  bit  of  it,  my  good  girl." 

"  God  bless  you !"  said  Edith,  as  the  two 
got  in,  and  the  rough  driver  cracked  his  whip. 

It  was  a  long  distance  from  the  coach  stand 
to  where  Sir  Robert  Brompton  lived,  and  as 
the  coach  rolled  through  street  after  street,  and 
turned  corner  after  corner,  the  two  girls  had 
ample  time  to  review  their  present  position, 
and  to  look  back  at  their  late  achievement  of 
the  passage  of  the  fearful  vault,  and  of  the 
almost  miraculous  escape  from  Lancewood's 
house.  Edith,  who  was  physically  less  able 
and  strong  than  her  companion,  was  too  ner 
vous  to  converse  as  they  drew  nearer  and  ne"ar- 
er  to  their  place  of  destination,  while  Clara 
asked  again  and  again  how  she  should  behave, 
and  what  she  should  say  to  the  people  where 
they  were  going,  if  they  asked  her  about  her 
self. 

She  almost  trembled  too  at  the  idea  of  going 
into  such  a  fine,  magnificent  house  as  Edith 
had  so  often  described  to  her  astonished  ears, 
but  then  she  tried  to  calm  herself  by  thinking 
if  good  Mrs.  Marlow  was  there,  of  whom  her 
companion  in  misery  had  so  often  spoken,  she 
at  least  would  be  good  and  kind  to  her,  and 
she  was  sure  she  need  not  be  afraid  where  she 
was.  While  both  were  thus  reasoning  and 
speculating  within  themselves,  the  hack  fast 


160 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


approached  Sir  Robert's  residence,  where  the 
two  girls  at  last  got  out ;  the  honest  driver 
still  refusing  the  ring  and  hurrying  away  like 
one  who  felt  repaid  for  a  worthy  act  by  the 
consciousness  of  right  that  he  experienced 
within. 

Edith  looked  after  the  honest  Hibernian 
with  a  tear  in  her  eye  !  The  rough  man  had 
befriended  her  at  a  critical  moment. 

"  Is  this  the  house  ?"  asked  Clara  almost  in 
a  whisper,  as  she  looked  on  in  wonder  at  the 
princely  abode  before  them. 

"  Yes,"  said  her  companion,  with  her  hands 
upon  her  brow,  striving  to  still  its  rapid  mo 
tion. 

No  wonder  her  heart  beat  so  quickly ;  no 
wonder  that  her  limbs  trembled  so  beneath 
her ;  no  wonder  that  she  almost  gasped  for 
breath,  on  approaching  so  nearly  again  the 
only  spot  on  earth  that  had  been  a  true  and 
happy  home  to  her.  Besides  this,  her  physi 
cal  strength  had  been  much  impaired  and  her 
feelings  were  less  under  control,  otherwise  she 
could  hardly  have  wept  outside  the  door. 

"  Edith  you  must  go  in  first,  and  then  if 
you  think  best  I  will  come  when  you  send  for 
me." 

"  No,  no,  Clara,"  said  Edith  seizing  her 
hand,  "  you  shall  go  in  with  me,  and  if  they 
receive  me  again,  they  must  receive  you  also." 

"  But  not  at  first,  Edith,  by  and  by.  I  will 
go  in  at  the  back  door,  and  you  can  easily 
send  for  me,"  continued  Clara,  who  was  be 
wildered  by  the  appearance  of  the  house  and 
its  magnificence. 

"  Say  no  more,  Clara.  You  have  been  good 
and  kind  to  me,  and  we  go  together,  if  at  all." 

Clara  held  by  her  hand  firmly,  as  she  said 
this,  but  made  no  reply.  She  knew  Edith 


well,  and  she  felt  that  she  would  abide  by 
what  she  had  said,  but  still  she  could  not  help 
fearing  that  her  welcome  would  be  but  a  cold 
one  at  best  under  the  singular  circumstances 
that  introduced  her  there,  but  still  trusting  to 
Edith's  assurance,  she  felt  that  at  any  rate  she 
was  committing  no  crime  in  following  her 
companion. 

They  paused  and  listened  for  more  than  a 
minute,  before  Edith  could  summon  sufficient 
courage  to  ring  the  bell,  while  Clara,  astonish 
ed  at  the  magnificent  appearance  of  the  richly 
lighted  and  ornamented  door- way,  gazed  in 
amazement,  and  as  the  servant  admitted  them, 
she  seemed  to  lose  herself  in  satisfying  her 
curiosity,  by  gazing  at  every  object  which  met 
her  delighted  and  curious  vision. 

It  is  doubtful  which  of  the  two  girls  pre 
sented  the  most  interesting  picture  at  that  mo 
ment,  Edith  with  her  plaintive  and  anxious 
look,  seeking  for  those  dear  friends  that  she 
expected  to  find  there,  or  Clara,  who  had  now 
dropped  her  companion's  hand,  and  gazed 
about  her  much  as  an  Indian  from  the  depth 
of  the  forest  might  do  at  his  first  glimpse  of 
the  refinements  of  civilization.  Her  eyes 
seemed  to  be  riveted  upon  all  things  at  once, 
and  though  she  kept  so  close  to  Edith,  yet 
her  face  was  turned  in  all  directions  to  observe 
what  to  her  was  such  a  curious  array  of  rich 
ness  and  lavish  ornaments.  Her  feelings  were 
not  unlike  those  of  Edith,  when  a  twelve 
month  before  she  had  entered  that  splendid 
abode  for  the  first  time.  The  numerous  ser 
vants,  the  gorgeous  lights  and  the  brilliancy  of 
every  thing  dazzled 'her,  but  following  close  to 
Edith  she  said  nothing. 

Poor  child,  so  young  and  handsome,  thy 
story  is  also  to  be  written  in  these  pages. 


The  next  number  of  this  work  will  be  issued  on  Saturday,  May  25th. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


C  HAPTER   XXIX. 


THE  LOST  FOUND. 

'  Such  scenes  had  tempered  with  a  pensive  grace, 
The  maiden  lustre  of  that  faultless  face  ; 
Had  hung  a  sad  and  dreamlike  spell  upon 
The  gliding  music  of  her  silver  tone  ; 
And  shaded  the  soft  soul  which  loved  to  lie, 
In  the  deep  pathos  of  that  volumed  eye." — O'NciL,  OR  THE  REBEL. 


WE  left  Sir  Robert  and  Walter  heart  sick 
at  the  failure  of  their  purpose  upon  the  ren 
dezvous  or  headquarters  of  Bill  the  Bold,  in 
searching  which  they  were  aided,  as  we  have 
shown,  by  the  police.  By  the  preceding  chap 
ter,  the  reader  has  learned  the  reason  why  this 
search  on  the  part  of  Sir  Robert  and  his  asso 
ciates  had  produced  no  signs  of  her  they 
sought.  Singularly  enough,  the  two  girls  had 
hardly  closed  the  trap  door  after  them  and 
reached  the  wet  footing  at  the  base  of  the 
steps,  before  the  police  had  entered  the  house. 
A  very  few  moments  sufficed  to  satisfy  Sir 
Robert  that  Edith  was  not  there,  and  as  we 
have  seen,  the  police  were  at  once  dismissed, 
and  Walter  and  himself  made  their  way  home 
again. 

The  tea  service  had  just  been  removed,  and 
Sir  Robert  arid  Walter  sat  together,  ruminating 
with  sad  faces  upon  their  fresh  disappointment. 
The  bright  polish  of  the  elegant  furniture  cast 
back  the  glare  of  the  fire  with  almost  dazzling 
effect,  while  a  rich  clock  upon  the  mantel-piece, 
with  its  ingenious  machinery  all  visible  through 
a  transparent  case,  slowly  and  soberly  ticked 
the  passing  moments.  So  quiet  was  the  spa 
cious  and  elegant  apartment,  that  the  tiny 


voice  of  the  instrument  seemed  to  be  singular 
ly  and  almost  ominously  loud,  as  it  will  some 
times  seem  in  a  sick  room.  Now  and  then, 
Sir  Robert,  half  aroused  from  his  fanciful 
thoughts,  would  raise  his  eyes  to  the  clock,  as 
if  starilea  by  its  never  varying  steadiness,  and 
the  constant  unremitting  stroke  that  chronicled 
the  footsteps  of  time  towards  eternity. 

As  they  sat  thus  meditating,  and  now  and 
then  interchanging  some  single  remark,  sud 
denly  Mrs.  Mario  w  rushed  into  the  room  in  a 
state  of  excitement  that  bordered  on  actual 
frenzy,  exclaiming: 

"  Sir  Robert,  Sir  Robert,  O,  Sir  Robert !" 

"  Good  gracious,  Mrs.  Marlow,  what's  the 
matter  with  you  ?" 

"  She's  come,  she's  come." 

"  Who  ?  What  do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Mar- 
low  ?"  asked  Sir  Robert. 

"  She's  come,  she's  come,"  continued  the 
housekeeper,  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight. 

"  Who  has  come  ?"  asked  Walter  eagerly, 
and  half  suspecting  the  truth. 

"  Edith,  Edith,  tbe  dear  child  !"  sobbed  the 
housekeeper. 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  said  Sir  Robert,  springing 
to  his  feet  at  the  mention  of  her  name,  and 


164 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


just  in  time  to  receive  the   embrace   of  the 
weeping  girl,  who  ran  into  his  arms. 

"  A  just  God  be  thanked  !"  said  Sir  Robert 
Brompton,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  as  he  folded  her 
tenderly  to  his  heart,  and  held  her  there  as 
though  he  feared  some  one  stood  ready  to  take 
her  from  him. 

"  Dear,  dear  Sir  Robert,"  resumed  the  poor 
girl,  all  bathed  in  tears. 

Then  turning  from  her  benefactor,  Edith 
ran  to  Mrs.  Marlow,  and  putting  her  arms 
about  her  neck,  she  kissed  her  again  and  again, 
while  the  kind-hearted  housekeeper  could  only 
bite  her  lips,  and  sob  like  a  child.  Suddenly 
turning  towards  Walter,  as  though  she  had 
ha]f  forgotten  herself,  she  came  to  him  the 
very  picture  of  frankness,  and  placing  both 
her  hands  in  his  own,  she  said  so  truly  and  so 
earnestly,  though  perhaps  with  a  slightly 
heightened  color,  as  she  spoke  : 

"  I  am  too  glad,  too  happy  to  see  you  again, 
Walter." 

"  Ah,  Edith,  this  is  a  joy  that  we  have  all 
of  us  coveted  this  many-a-day,"  he  answered, 
warmly  pressing  her  hands. 

The  reader  should  realize  the  picture  that 
parlor  presented  at  this  time,  for  it  was  one  to 
be  remembered  in  the  thread  of  our  plot,  a 
tableau  that  must  contrast  strangely  with  the 
relative  position  of  those  parties,  ere  our  story 
closes. 

While  this  exciting  and  touching  scene 
was  going  on  between  Sir  Robert,  Walter, 
Edith  and  Mrs.  Marlow,  there  stood  quite 
alone  and  neglected,  just  within  the  entrance 
of  the  door,  a  fifth  party.  It  was  Edith's  late 
companion.  She  was  looking  at  the  scene  be 
fore  her  with  a  trembling  lip  and  full  eye. 
Now  she  tried  to  read  the  expression  of  Sir 
Robert's  face,  and  see  if  she  might  hope  for 
welcome  from  him,  and  then 'she  felt  lighter  at 
heart  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  countenance  of 
Mrs.  Marlow,  which  seemed  to  her  to  be  mark 
ed  with  a  heart  in  every  line  of  it.  She  loved 
Edith  very,  very  dearly,  and  yet  a  little  tinge 
of  envy  crossed  her  breast,  as  she  witnessed 
the  tenderness  of  her  welcome. 

At  the  splendid  furniture  and  belongings  of 
the  room  she  gazed  with  undisguised  astonish 
ment.  In  her  wildest  dreams  she  had  never 
depicted  so  much  elegance  and  wealth,  or  in 
deed  ever  before  seen  anything  of  the  sort, 
even  of  the  humblest  character.  Her  heavy 


shoes  contrasted  strangely  with  the  soft  velvet 
carpeting,  and  her  coarse  frock  with  the  satin 
curtains,  and  damask  furniture  coverings.  She 
thought  of  this,  and  seemed  to  shrink  back 
nearer  to  the  door,  as  though  she  felt  that  she 
was  trespassing.  But  spite  of  all  her  coarse 
ness  of  dress,  there  beamed  forth  from  her 
really  beautiful  and  expressive  face,  a  pair  of 
soft  blue  eyes  large  and  playful,  and  lips 
of  dainty  freshness  and  color — parted  now  in 
surprise  and  discovering  within,  teeth  of  fault 
less  regularity  and  whiteness.  At  a  casual 
glance,  she  seemed  to  be  the  very  counterpart 
of  Edith  herself,  so  strongly  did  they  resemble 
each  other. 

"  An  apple  cleft  in  twain,  was  not  more  twin 
Than  these  two  creatures." 

It  was  only  for  a  single  moment  that  the 
poor  girl  was  permitted  to  stand  thus  alone  and 
neglected,  for  Edith  now  turning  from  Walter, 
observed  her  trying  situation,  and  ran  and  kiss 
ed  her  in  the  excess  of  her  joy,  as  she  said : 

"  Dear  Sir  Robert,  this  is  my  friend  Clara, 
my  sister,  1  should  call  her,  for  she  has  been  a 
dear,  good  one  to  me  in  my  dismal  confine 
ment  since  I  was  forced  away  from  here." 

"  If  she  has  been  kind  to  you,  Edilh,  it  is 
enough  to  make  us  friends  at  once,"  said  Sir 
Robert,  as  he  approached  the  spot  where  Clara 
stood,  gazing  upon  her  with  intense  interest. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  Mrs.  Marlow,  how  kind 
and  good  Clara  has  been  to  me." 

"  Has  she  ?"  said  the  good  housekeeper,  tak 
ing  Clara's  hand  kindly. 

"  How  much  they  look  alike,  Sir  Robert," 
said  Walter,  in  surprise.  Then  turning  to 
Edith  again,  he  said,  "you  may  well  call  her 
sister,  since  she  resembles  you  so  strongly." 

"  Dear,  dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  Marlow,  affect 
ing  to  be  very  much  shocked  at  the  appear 
ance  of  the  girls,  but  in  reality  trying  to  dis 
guise  the  telltale  tears.  "  Come  with  me, 
both  of  you,  do  quick,  and  I  will  get  you  some 
proper  clothes.  Now,  Sir  Robert,  pray  don't 
look  so  impatient,  Edith  shall  come  to  you 
again  in  a  very  short  time." 

"  Yes,  Sir  Robert,"  said  Edith,  turningand 
kissing  him  tenderly. 

"  Come  to  me  in  the  library,  Edith,"  he  re 
plied,  when  you  are  rested. 

"  I  will,  Sir  Robert,  for  I  have  so  much  to 
tell  you,1'  she  answered. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


165 


"Edith,"  said  Walter,  touching  her  upon 
the  arm  as  she  was  speaking  to  Sir  Robert, 
"  you  have  not  introduced  your  young  friend 
to  me  yet,  pray  what  is  her  name  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  Walter,"  she  said,  "  for  re 
minding  me.  I  did  forget." 

"  Clara,  dear,  this  is  Mr.  Walter  Manning, 
of  whose  kindness  I  have  told  you  before." 

A  heightened  color  diffused  itself  over  the 
young  girl's  face  as  Walter  bowed  to  her. 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  knew  each  one  of  you 
already.  Edith  has  described  you  all  so  of 
ten  to  me,"  said  Clara,  modestly.  "  She  has 
talked  of  nothing  else  but  your  goodness  for 
these  twelve  months  past,  until  through  her  I 
have  loved  you  all  without  knowing  you,  ex 
cept  in  your  great  kindness  to  her." 

Sir  Robert  had  been  much  affected  before 
this,  his  voice  had  been  hoarse,  and  his  lips  a 
little  tremulous;  but  now,  while  he  listened  to 
this  modest  and  unaffected  speech,  big  drops 
rolled  down  his  cheeks,  and  he  was  forced  to 
turn  away  his  head  from  those  before  him. 
They  were  the  first  tears  he  had  shed  for  many 
long  years. 

"  My  good  girl,"  said  he,  taking  her  hand 
tenderly,  "believe  yourself  perfectly  welcome 
here,  and  strive  to  be  as  happy  as  you  can. 
Your  kindness  to  Edith  alone  would  claim  the 
warmest  gratitude  from  all  who  are  in  this 
house,  did  not  your  own  modest  spirit  bespeak 
for  you  a  generous  reception.  Aie  you  an  or 
phan,  Clara?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Then  be  indeed  a  sister  to  Edith,  and 
share  her  welcome  here." 

"Live  here  like  Edith,  sir?" 

"  Certainly,   Clara,   that  is  what  I  mean." 

"  0,  many,  many  thanks,  sir,"  but  I  did  not 
even  think  of  that,  I  should  not  feel  at  home 
here.  I  told  Edith  when  she  persuaded  me  to 
run  away  with  her,  that  if  you  would  let  me 
wo*rk  for  her  and  you,  it  might  be  perhaps 
pleasant,  if  you  were  willing.  I  know  I  could 
be  useful,  for  I  am  used  to  it,  I  am  indeed, 
sir." 

Sir  Robert  was  much  affected  as  he  listened 
intently  to  her  voice,  and  observed  her  minut 
est  expression  of  feature.  It  seemed  to  charm 
him,  and  win  a  way  to  his  heart  at  once.  Af- 
^  ter  gazing  upon  her  a  moment,  and  from  her  to 
Edith,  he  parted  the  rich  hair  that  lay  so  neg 
ligently  about  her  head,  as  he  said  kindly  : 


"  We  shall  be  good  friends,  Clara,  I  know 
that  we  shall;  talk  no  more  about  work,  my 
good  girl,  but  go  with  Mrs.  Marlow,  and  let 
her  exert  her  good  taste  and  kindness  upon 
you." 

"  Here,  Mrs.  Marlow,  take  both  these  chil 
dren.  I  need  not  ask  you  to  be  kind  to  them." 

Mrs.  Marlow  said  nothing,  but  she  looked 
volumes  of  tender  solicitude,  as  she  led  them 
away  with  her. 

What  a  change  had  an  hour  made  in  the 
appearance  of  everything  about  Sir  Robert 
Brompton's  household.  The  sad  expression 
that  seemed  the  predominating  characteristic 
of  one  and  all,  had  given  place  to  bright  and 
cheerful  looks,  and  all  were  full  of  the  satis 
faction  that  they  read  in  Sir  Robert  Bromp 
ton's  face.  Good  Mrs.  Marlow  went  bluster 
ing  about  in  all  directions,  now  here,  now 
there,  ordering  the  best  of  everything  for  the 
new  comers,  now  baths,  now  fresh  linen,  now 
a  hosier,  now  a  milliner,  now  a  coiffeur,  until 
at  last  both  Edith  and  Clara  were  almost 
completely  overpowered  with  her  kindness. 
The  truth  was,  the  young  girls  were  extremely 
worn  out  by  tneir  late  adventures,  and  re 
quired  some  wholesome  nourishment  and  quiet 
sleep,  more  than  aught  else.  The  former  was 
supplied  to  them  profusely  and  of  the  nicest 
kind,  and  after  enjoying  a  grateful  bath,  tem 
pered  to  soothe  their  chilled  and  aching  limbs, 
and  a  luxury  that  both  of  the  girls  had  long 
been  a  stranger  to — clean  linen,  they  were 
placed  on  soft  downy  beds,  the  rich  curtains 
of  which  shut  out  the  light,  and  the  luxuri 
ance  of  which  wooed  them  to  sleep.  There 
their  soft  slumbers  were  watched  over  by  the 
good  Mrs.  Marlow  for  a  large  share  of  the 
night. 

" — Dream  orr,  blest  pair, 

Yet  happier  if  you  knew  your  happiness, 

And  knew  to  know  no  more  !" 

A  casual  observer  could  hardly  have  real 
ized  that  the  two  bright  beaming  and  happy 
faces  that  were  opposite  to  Sir  Robert  and 
Walter  at  the  breakfast  table  on  the  morning 
succeeding  the  adventures  we  have  described, 
were  the  same  two,  who,  pale  and  haggard, 
had  issued  on  the  preceding  evening  from  the 
mouth  of  the  subterranean  passage  on  the  banks 
of  the  Thames.  How  happy  they  looked 
now,  what  quiet  joy  shone  in  their  eyes ! 


166 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


Edith,  over  happy  at  her  return  to  those  she 
loved ;  Clara,  all  gratitude  and  amazement  at 
the  sumptuousness  that  she  observed  around 
her.  To  look  at  them  only  for  a  moment,'  it 
would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  the  two  might 
be  called  the  handsomest.  Edith  had  the 
advantage  of  her  former  experience  and  culti 
vation  to  aid  her,  although  this  had  been  en 
joyed  but  for  a  brief  twelvemonth.  But  Wal 
ter  Manning  observed  that  notwithstanding 
Clara  was  all  impulse  and  curiosity  in  the 
contemplation  of  everything  around  her,  yet 
she  was  really  very  far  from  being  awkward. 
Indeed  there  seemed  to  be  a  native  grace  and 
gentility  about  her  manner,  in  spite  of  her 
humble  origin.  Her  form,  which  was  very 
fine  and  slightly  more  full  in  outline  than  her 
companion's,  was  very  pliant  and  easy ;  though 
her  curiosity  leH  her  to  assume  an  original 
and  peculiar  attitude,  still  she  was  very  far 
from  appearing  as  lacking  ease  or  grace  ;  she 
possessed  them  by  nature. 

"  You  slept  soundly,  I  hope,"  said  Sir 
Robert,  cheerfully. 

"  Both  of  us,"  replied  Edith,  "  we  never 
woke  until  nearly  ten  this  morning.  " 

"  I  feared  you  might  be  too  tired  to  fall 
easily  to  sleep." 

"  O  no,"  replied  Edith,  "  and  yet  I  did  lie 
awake  for  nearly  an  hour," 

"  And  why  ?" 

"  O,  I  was  thinking,  Sir  Robert." 

"  Of  what,  Edith ;  what  should  keep  you 
awake,  pray?" 

"  I  was  thinking  how  much  the  night  re 
sembled  that  when  I  was  first  brought  here," 
she  replied. 

Thus  they  chatted  together,  Clara  being 
almost  too  much  engaged  in  familiarizing  her 
self  with  matters  around  her,  to  pretend  to 
talk  much,  although  she  answered  'cheerfully 
when  Sir  Robert  or  Walter  addressed  her. 

"  This  evening,  Edith,  you  must  give  me  a 
history  of  your  adventures  for  the  long  time 
you  have  been  away  from  us." 

"  Yes,  Sir  Robert,  I  will  do  so."  » 

"And  Clara's  story,  too,"  said  Walter 
Manning,  "  we  would  hear  that." 

"  If  you  wish  it,  with  all  my  heart,"  she 
replied,  smiling  pleasantly. 

Edith  was  beyond  a  doubt  more  sentimen 
tally  lovely  than  Clara,  her  epres  sion  evin 
cing  more  of  her  soul  in  every  glance  than  did 


her  companion.  Clara  was  far  more  lively 
and  vivacious  by  nature  than  Edith,  and  her 
beauty,  like  her  spirits,  seemed  in  a  degree  to 
come  and  go  as  her  face  became  suddenly 
animated  with  interest,  or  gently  settled  into 
repose.  There  appeared  to  be  ever  lurking 
beneath  the  surface  a  half  suppressed  flood 
of  mirth  and  cheerfulness,  while  her  com 
panion  was  at  times  perhaps  almost  melan 
choly. 

Both  had  dark,  soft  and  most  luxuriant 
hair,  blue  eyes,  and  features,  which  in  profile 
were  quite  classical.  They  were  very  nearly 
of  the  same  size,  Clara,  perhaps  was  a  little 
the  smallest,  both  were  about  the  same  age, 
being  hardly  fifteen.  Perhaps  in  all  London, 
two  such  happy,  expressive  and  handsome 
faces  might  not  elsewhere  be  found,  as  Mrs. 
Marlow  boldly  said.  Both  soon  fell  happily 
and  pleasantly  into  the  new  routine  and  dis 
cipline  of  life  that  surrounded  them,  impro 
ving  almost  hourly  in  many  respects,  while 
Edith,  by  her  constant  endeavors,  helped  Clara 
forward  most  surprisingly  in  the  studies  that 
both  at  once  applied  themselves  to,  until  their 
instructers  declared  that  never  were  pupils 
more  apt  and  industrious. 

It  would  be  hard  to  draw  a  picture  of  a 
happier  household  than  Sir  Robert  Bromp- 
ton's,  at  this  period ;  the  two  new  comers 
growing  more  and  more  interesting  and  beau 
tiful  every  day,  and  the  whole  household 
becoming  no  less  endeared  to  Clara,  for  her 
generous,  self-sacrificing  and  ever-cheerful  dis 
position,  than  they  had  been  to  Edith  before. 
Sir  Robert,  though  he  evidently  held  Edith 
as  his  favorite,  still  seemed  to  enjoy  a  marked 
and  constant  interest  in  the  society  of  Clara. 
He  would  often  sit  by  her  side,  and  listen  to 
a  relation  of  her  past  life,  as  far  as  she  knew, 
it  herself,  and  was  even  content  to  sit  by  her, 
hours  together,  and  hear  her  read  to  him, 
watching  with  interest  her  expression,  ap 
pearing  to  gain  peculiar  pleasure  from  the 
soft  and  musical  intonations  of  her  sweet 
voice. 

Walter  Manning  seemed  strongly  attracted 
towards  them  both,  exerting  all  his  powers 
and  versatile  talent  to  please  and  amuse  them. 
His  attention  was  directed  to  neither  in  par-  ^ 
ticular,  but  he  seemed  devoted  to  both  alike. 
Clara's  quick  wit  and  sparkling  humor  kept 
them  ever  merry,  and  Edith's  tender  and 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


167 


gentle  sweetness  of  disposition  bound  them 
nearly  together  in  the  silken  cords  of  sisterly 
and  true  regard.  Indeed,  the  two  seemed  to 
vie  with  each  other,  as  to  which  should  be 
the  most  kind  and  most  considerate  to  the 
other.  The  memory  of  the  suffering  they 
had  shared  together  served  as  another  tie 
between  them,  and  its  recollections  served  for 
converse,  as  they  compared  it  with  their  pre 
sent  home. 

In  the  mean  time,  Sir  Robert  Brompton^ 
having  fully  heard  the  story  of  Edith's  im 
prisonment  by  the  burglar  who  styled  himself 
Lance  wood,  took  measures  for  a  second  visit 
thither  with  a  strong  body  of  police,  for  the 
purpose  of  breaking  up  this  den  of  infamy. 
But  although  they  found  all  the  localities  as 
described,  yet  the  escape  of  the  two  girls  had 
been  sufficient  warning  for  him  to  move  his 
quarters,  for  he  knew  full  well,  that  they 
would  be  importuned  to  witness  against  him, 
and  thus  without  further  evidence,  lead  to  his 
conviction  by  the  laws. 

For  these  reasons,  he  left  at  once  after  dis 
covering  the  escape,  which  was  to  him  a  most 
unaccountable  affair,  since  he  knew  nothing 
of  the  subterranean  passage,  a  place  which  he 
might  himself  have  turned  to  good  account. 
He  removed,  as  we  have  said,  to  another  part 
of  the  town,  and  when  the  police  surrounded 
the  house  and  entered  it,  they  found  that  the 
bird  had  flown,  though  in  the  hurry,  some 
valuables  and  burglars'  tools  had  been  left 
behind.  The  secret  passage  was  also  fully 
explored  by  the  police,  and  found  to  have  been 
used  for  the  purpose  of  smuggling  and  of  stor 
ing  contraband  goods,  tobacco,  spirits  and  the 


like.  The  passage  was  destroyed  by  the 
authorities,  who  decided  that  it  could  serre 
no  good  purpose,  and  might  aid  crime. 

Time  passed  swiftly  on  as  it  had  ever  done, 
as  it  is  doing  now,  and  as  it  will  do  to-mor 
row.  Edith  and  her  companion  Clara  evin 
ced  steady  improvement  in  all  lady-like  ac 
complishments,  and  in  diligence.  Indeed,  as 
it  regarded  brilliancy,  Clara  eclipsed  Edith, 
there  was  more  sparkling  vivaciousness  in  her 
disposition,  than  in  that  of  Edith,  whose  even 
sweetness  of  disposition  was  none  the  les« 
lovely  for  the  comparison.  Edith  was  like  a 
bright,  beautiful  star,  that  burns  pure  and 
steady  in  its  sphere,  Clara  was  more  like  a 
comet,  startling  and  almost  glorious  in  its  ma 
jestic  beauty  and  flashing  brilliancy.  Some 
times  her  natural  ability,  surprising  wit  and 
power  of  repartee  would  astonish  Sir  Robert, 
who  would  turn  to  Walter  Manning  and  say  : 

"Never  boast  to  me  of  blood  and  descent 
again ;  there  is  a  child  born  in  the  very  hum 
blest  sphere  of  life,  who  would  startle  the 
whole  court,  were  she  to  mingle  there,  with 
her  elegance  of  thought  and  grace  of  manner, 
and  yet  she  has  been  scarce  half  a  year  living 
in  a  civilized  condition.  Blood  indeed !" 

"  I  acknowledge,  Sir  Robert,  that  your  ex 
ample  is  ahead  of  my  argument." 

"She  is  very  handsome  and  interesting, 
Walter,"  replied  Sir  Robert,  "  but  she  has  not 
that  combination  of  womanly  beauty  that 
Edith  possesses  ;  do  you  think  she  has  ?" 

"  Spare  me,  Sir  Robert,  I  cannot  be  so  par 
tial  as  to  answer  that  question." 

And  thus  went  matters  at  the  house  of  Sir 
Robert  Brompton  at  this  period. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 


A  DOMESTIC  SCENE. 


"  They  grew  in  beauty  side  by  side 
They  filled  one  home  with  glee." 


HEMANS. 


IT  will  be  remembered  that  the  young  pi 
lot,  Walter  Manning,  had  now  for  the  term 
of  two  years  devoted  his  time  to  the  study  of 
the  law,  a  profession  which  seemed  to  him  to 
open  for  his  ambitious  hopes  and  aspirations, 
the  gates  to  fame,  and  through  its  means  he 
hoped  yet  to  be  able  to  win  his  way  to  honor 
able  distinction.  His  association  with  Sir 
Robert  Brompton  was  the  same  as  it  had  ever 
been,  and  though  there  was  such  a  disparity 
in  their  ages,  yet  they  seemed  like  brothers 
together,  or  perhaps  still  more  like  father  and 
son.  Thus  their  amusements  and  hours  of 
relaxation  were  mainly  spent  together,  though 
in  fact  the  attraction  that  drew  them  to  their 
own  fireside  was  so  strong,  that  most  of  the 
time  they  were  at  home,  enjoyjag  the  society 
of  Edith  and  Clara,  who  were  never  happier 
than  when  with  them. 

To  the  casual  reader  it  may  seem  a  little 
singular  that  one  who  was  so  far  advanced  in 
life  as  Sir  Robert  was,  should  have  chosen  for 
a  companion  one  so  young  as  Walter.  But 
the  fact  was,  the  singular  accident  which  had 
brought  them  together  in  the  first  place,  and 
the  attendant  circumstances,  which  we  have 
related,  had  done  much  to  render  them  firm 
friends,  had  there  been  no  other  prompting 


causes  ;  but  these  were  not  wanting,  for  there 
were  many  traits  of  character  in  both  (al 
though  there  was  so  much  difference  in  their 
ages),  which  were  so  similar  and  so  of  a  nature 
to  draw  them  together,  that  it  was  easily  ac 
counted  for  to  those  who  knew  them  best. 
There  was  evidently  another  reason  why  Sir 
Robert  looked  upon  Walter  with  so  much 
interest;  in  the  first  place, his  heart  seemed 
every  day  more  and  more  wrapped  up  in 
jjdith,  and  it  is  useless  to  disguise  the  fact 
that  he  had  evidently  in  his  mind  arranged 
that  Walter  should  finally  marry  her,  though 
he  had  never  so  much  as  hinted  the  matter  to 
either  of  them. 

"  Walter,  you  remain  too  constantly  at 
home,  and  too  much  engaged  over  your  books," 
said  Sir  Robert. 

"  0  no,  Sir  Robert,  I  enjoy  myself  very 
much  at  home." 

"  But  it  would  be  an  improvement  for  you 
to  mingle  more  in  society." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"Yes.  Go  to  the  clubs,  and  make  new 
acquaintances,  and  study  human  nature." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,  Sir  Robert." 

Walter  was  actually  of  a  generous  and 
impulsive  disposition,  though  very  studious, 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


169 


but  he  acted  upon  Sir  Robert's  suggestion, 
and  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the  clubs  and 
mingling  with  the  gay  world  of  London  soci 
ety.  The  truth  was,  his  elder  companion  and 
firm  friend  had  too  much  confidence  in  Wal 
ter  to  fear  that  he  would  suffer  by  the  con 
tact;  and  he  trusted  to  his  home  associations, 
which  he  knew  to  be  so  strong  upon  him,  as 
well  as  the  influence  that  he  himself  possessed 
over  him,  to  prevent  any  contaminating  effects 
upon  his  protege.  Sir  Robert  knew  that  the 
experience  which  Walter  would  gain  in  this 
way  was  not  without  its  value,  to  a  man 
whose  profession  was  such  as  to  call  into 
active  play  a  full  knowledge  of  human  nature ; 
besides,  he  was  one  of  that  class  of  philoso 
phers  who  reason,  that  a  young  man  should 
see  vice  as  well  as  virtue,  and  thus  forewarned, 
become  forearmed,  and  the  better  fitted  to 
combat  with  it. 

As  time  rolled  on  it  would  be  unreasonable 
to  suppose  for  a  moment,  that  Walter  Man 
ning,  a  high-spirited,  handsome  and  manly 
youth,  did  not  fully  entertain  the  tender  feel 
ings  naturally  induced  by  his  intimacy  with 
two  such  lovely  females  as  Edith  and  Clara. 
He  felt  inwardly  drawn  towards  them,  to 
Edith  for  the  soft,  winning  and  tender  charac 
ter  of  her  whole  spirits,  and  towards  Clara  for 
her  free,  unconstrained  and  constant  playful 
ness  and  wit. 

To  look  upon  the  two  young  girls  now,  you 
would  have  supposed  them  both  born  to  the 
sphere  which  they  graced  so  fittingly.  Their 
occupations  were  of  the  most  intellectual 
character,  and  of  course  imparted  that  mental 
grace  which  more  than  all  else,  is  so  winning 
and  beautiful.  In  their  conversation  and  com 
munion  with  Walter,  they  seemed  like  his 
sisters  ;  there  was  no  coyness,  no  reserve,  no 
coquetry,  they  both  loved  him  as  a  dear, 
familiar  friend.  Even  Sir  Robert,  who  often 
watched  them  with  cautious  eye,  more  es 
pecially  in  relation  to  the  plan  which  he 
had  formed  in  his  own  heart,  could  detect  not 
the  least  partiality  on  Walter's  part,  though 
he  manifested  at  all  times  how  agreeable  their 
society  was  to  him,  and  indeed  sought  it  too 
constantly  and  devotedly  not  to  lead  his 
patron  to  believe  that  his  heart  was  engaged 
there.  To  a  man  of  Sir  Robert's  leisure,  his 
hopes  even  if  simple  ones,  became  subjects  oJ 
much  thought  in  his  own  mind,  and  that  of  a 


union  between  Edith  and  Walter  seemed  to 
have  been  dwelt  upon  by  him  until  his  heart 
was  much  set  upon  its  consummation  ;  and  yet  • 
he  was  too  delicate  to  intimate,  even  by  the 
slightest  token  to  either  of  the  parties,  that 
such  was  his  desire. 

But  Walter,  in  the  meantime,  kept  on  the 
even  tenor  of  his  way,  thinking  no  doubt — 

"  How  happy  could  I  be  with  either, 
Were  t'other  dear  charmer  away." 

How  many  have  been  situated  like  Walter 
Manning,  and  how  many  have  said  these 
very  words  in  their  hearts  ! 

Sir  Robert  Brompton's  standing  and  wealth 
were  such  as  to  attract  many  fashionable  and 
even  noble  visiters  to  his  house,  though  his 
taste  was  of  that  cast  that  was  not  calculated 
to  attract  much  display  and  parade  about 
him.  Still  everything  here  was  in  most  ex 
cellent  taste;  the  pictures  were  so  admirable, 
the  statues  so  finely  executed,  and  the  orna 
ments  that  graced  his  drawing  rooms  so  curi 
ous  and  so  rich,  that  many  persons  of  taste 
and  refinement  visited  them,  attracted  by 
these  subjects  strongly,  as  well  as  by  Sir 
Robert's  generous  hospitality. 

Edith  and  Clara  were  too  young  to  go  into 
society,  had  either  they  or  Sir  Robert  desired 
it,  but  this  was  not  the  case.  Both  they  and 
Sir  Robert  preferred  retirement,  but  they  were 
of  course  introduced  to  such  as  were  frequent 
visiters  to  their  patron's  house,  and  the  idea 
was  left  to  be  inferred,  or  was  perhaps  thrown 
out  by  Sir  Robert  himself,  that  they  were 
children  of  a  poor  but  well  beloved  friend,  at 
whose  decease  he  had  promised  to  adopt  them 
as  his  own.  The  good  sense  of  the  girls 
themselves  was  of  course  sufficient  guard  on 
their  tongues,  while  the  high-bred  persons  who 
frequented  the  drawing  rooms  at  Sir  Robert 
Brompton's,  were  too  polite  and  considerate  to 
refer  to  a  subject  that  they  might  naturally 
suppose  to  be  a  delicate  one  with  them. 

This  was  an  important  matter  as  it  regard 
ed  the  settling  o  the  young  girls'  positions, 
and  was  perhaps  the  most  probable  story  that 
could  have  been  invented,  inasmuch  as  no  one 
doubted  it  for  one  moment,  and  the  matter 
once  understood  to  be  as  we  have  said,  it  in 
duced  no  further  consideration,  but  was  for 
gotten  in  the  present  position  that  they  occu 
pied. 


170 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


Seeing  by  the  character  of  the  society  into 
which  they  were  gradually  thrown,  the  im 
mense  importance  and  even  necessity  of  cul 
tivation  and  mental  improvement,  the  two 
friends  were  led  to  the  most  unremitting  ex 
ertions  in  order  to  instruct  themselves,  and 
with  the  advantage  which  Sir  Robert  so  liber 
ally  supplied,  of  the  best  masters  in  all  branch 
es,  they  made  most  wonderful  progress.  On 
the  part  of  Clara  there  was  a  secret  incentive 
which  operated  strongly  to  cause  her  to  make 
the  most  determined  effort  to  improve,  and 
that  was  that  she  might  fully  equal,  if  not  ex 
cel  Edith,  There  is  emulation  in  every 
thing,  and  though  she  loved  her  dear  com 
panion  with  all  her  heart,  and  like  a  fond  sis 
ter,  still  a  secret  wish  to  excel  her  in  their 
studies,  caused  Clara  to  labor  upon  her  books 
many  an  hour  when  Edith  slept.  The  im 
provement  of  Clara  was  in  turn  an  incentive 
for  fresh  exertion  for  Edith,  and  thus  they 
both  went  on  in  their  studies,  advancing  rap 
idly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  those  two 
girls,"  said  a  young  sprig  of  aristocracy  to  a 
friend  one  evening,  at  Sir  Robert  Brompton's 
house.  "  They  are  as  unassuming  and  intel 
ligent  as  they  are  beautiful." 

"  Beautiful  indeed,"  said  her  companion, 
earnestly.  He  was  a  frequenter  of  the  house, 
and  the  son  of  a  proud  family,  having  himself 
just  attained  to  the  title  and  estate  of  Lord 
Amidown,  his  father. 

Edith  and  Clara  were  engaged  at  this  mo 
ment  with  a  group  of  friends  in  an  opposite 
corner  of  the  apartment. 

"  To  my  mind,  Amidown,  Clara  is  by  far 
the  most  handsome  and  entertaining  of  the 
two.  See  now  how  she  carries  the  company 
with  her,"  said  he  who  had  first  spoken. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  Lord  Amidown, 
still  regarding  them  intently. 

"  Certainly,  I  do.  There,  do  you  not  see 
how  she  keeps  them  in  a  broad  laugh  ?  Why, 
Amidown,  her  wit  is  as  keen  as  that  of  the 
king's  jester,  and  yet  as  delicate  and  finely 
tempered  as  a  Damascus  blade." 

"  She  may  be  more  entertaining,  I  grant 
you,"  said  Lord  Amidown,  still  observing 
them,  "  but  to  my  mind,  Edith  is  by  far  the 
most  interesting.  Did  you  ever  mark  how 
very  soft  her  eyes  are ;  and  of-  what  a  lovely 
hue?" 


"  Yes,  I  have  observed  that  they  were  blue," 
was  the  reply. 

"  Ah,  but  suck  a  blue,"  replied  Lord  Ami- 
down,  with  emphasis. 

"  Yes,  but  Clara's  eyes  are  blue  also,"  re 
plied  his  companion. 
*"  True,  but—" 

"But  what,  Amidown." 

"  Clara's  eyes  are  blue,"  continued  his  lord 
ship.  "  I  do  not  dispute  tljat,  they  are  full  of 
life  too,  but  they  lack  that  plaintive  sweetness, 
that  speaks  of  full  confidence  and  reliance, 
giving  constant  token  of  a  soul  too  pure  to  sus 
pect  another  of  wrong,  and  too  innocent  to 
buffet  with  the  selfish  and  calloused  world." 

"  Ho,  ho,  Amidown,"  Said  his  friend,  look 
ing  at  his  lordship  from  beneath  his  contracted 
eyebrows,  and  following  his  exclamation  by  a 
low,  half  suppressed  whistle. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  now  ?"  asked  his 
lordship  in  surprise. 

"So,  so,  sits  the  wind  in  that  quarter?" 
continued  his  companion,  with  a  half  taunting 
voice.  "  We  shall  have  a  duel  and  bloodshed, 
yet,  my  lord.  Why  look  ye,  this  young  East 
Indian,  Walter  Manning,  is  dead  in  love  with 
Edith,  and  would  eat  fire  itself  before  he'd 
yield  her  up,  or  give  an  inch  of  ground  to  any 
man.  Besides,  my  lord,"  whispered  his  friend 
significantly,  "  it  is  said  that  he  is  a  crack 
shot,  sure  at  fifteen  paces." 

"  Fie,  fie,"  said  his  lordship,  "  this  is  no  sub 
ject  for  nonsense." 

"  True,  it  is  assuming  rather  a  serious  turn,' 
said  the  other,  laughing. 

"  But  do  you  think  that  Mr.  Manning  loves 
her  ?"  asked  Lord  Amidown. 

"  To  be  sure  he  does.  See  her  lean  upon 
his  arm  now  as  they  go  over  to  talk  about  that 
picture,  by  this  light.  Faith,  she  has  a  queen 
ly  form.  Everybody  says  they  are  in  love, 
and  what  everybody  says  must  be  true." 

"  But  I  have  observed  him  closely  to-night," 
said  Lord  Amidown,  "  and  I  doubt  if  he  does 
not  pay  fully  as  earnest  court  to  Clara,  as  he 
does  to  Edith.  If  he  has  a  partiality  in  that 
quarter,  he  does  not  show  it.  Egad,  I  envy 
him  his  brotherly  relation  to  them,  all  three 
adopted  children  of  the  rich  old  fellow,  Sir 
Robert." 

"  He  picked  up  young  Manning  somewhere 
in  the  East  Indies,  eh  ?" 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


171 


"  Yes,  didn't  you  ever  know  the  story  of 
their  being  cast  away  together?" 

<•  No." 

"  It's  as  good  as  a  novel.  I'll  tell  it  to  you 
some  time." 

"  I'll  remind  you  of  it  at  the  club,  and  you 
shall  tell  me  the  whole  of  it.  In  the  mean 
time,  my  lord,  let  us  approach  the  party  oppo 
site,  and  observe  the  game  more  closely. 
Mark  me,  Walter  is  playing  his  cards  to 
Edith." 

The  two  young  gentlemen  walked  leisurely 
across  the  spacious  room  where  this  conversa 
tion  had  taken  place,  and  joined  the  little  knot 
of  which  Edith  and  Clara  were  the  centre.  Of 
course  they  did  not  let  it  appear  that  they  had 
been  talking  of  them,  but  seemed  to  have 
lounged  to  their  side  after  a  circuit  of  the 
room,  during  which  they  had  ostensibly  been 
engaged  in  a  minute  inspection  of  several  of 
the  paintings  that  graced  the  walls. 

"  Ah,  here  is  Lord  Amidown,"  said  Clara, 
as  he  drew  near  to  the  little  circle,  "  he  will  be 
my  champion  in  this  all-important  controver 
sy.  Won't  you  couch  a  lance  for  me,  my 
lord  ?" 

"  Most  assuredly,  Miss  Clara,"  said  his 
lordship  quickly.  "  Count  on  me  against 
whatever  odds.  But  pray  what  is  the  subject 
in  dispute,  if  I  may  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  ?" 

"  Hold,"  said  Clara,  "  you  are  first  to  pledge 
yourself  to  my  support." 

"  O,  yes.  I  have  taken  your  side  of  the 
argument  already." 

"  Well,  then  you  must  know,  my  lord,"  be 
gan  Clara,  "  that  we  were  speaking  of  nation 
al  costumes.  Mr.  Manning  is  in  favor  of  our 
good  old  English  fashion  of  dressing  like  men 
and  women,  as  he  calls  it.  Sir  Robert  likes 
best  the  old  Roman  toga  and  sandals, — 
though,  between  ourselves,  nay  lord,  I  shrewdly 
suspect  he  assumes  the  preference  merely  for 
argument's  sake.  Edith  affects  the  Italian 
and  Spanish  modes — which  puzzles  me  the 
more  because  Edith  is  always  right  in  almost 
everything.  Mr.  Steaton  here,  thinks  the 
Swiss  peasantry  a  model — but  I  was  just  hop 
ing  to  win  him  over  to  my  side,  when  you 
came  up,  my  lord,  and  as  you  are  not  commit 
ted  as  yet,  why  I  am  most  fortunate." 

"  And  which  choice  is  yours,  or  perhaps  I 
should  say,  ours  ?" 

"  I  have   been   advocating  the   grace   and 


beauty  of  the  Turkish  costume,"  she  replied. 
"  And  now  my  lord,  honestly,  which  of  them 
all  do  you  advocate  ?" 

"  Upon  my  allegiance  ?"  asked  his  lordship, 
referring  to  his  promise  to  support  her  side  of 
the  argument. 

"  No,  but  honestly,  my  lord." 

"  If  I  could  see  Miss  Clara  Brompton  in  a 
Turkish  dress,  beyond  a  doubt  I  should  ever 
after  be  a  devotee  to  the  style  of  the  East,  but 
since  I  have  only  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
her  grace  an  honest  English  fashion,  I  shall 
be  compelled  to  agree,  with  Mr.  Manning,  that 
it  is  decidedly  my  favorite." 

"  You  are  as  ready  as  a  barrister,  my  lord, 
and  as  shrewd,  and  non-commital ;  but  I  ac 
knowledge  that  I  am  in  the  minority,  that  I 
am  thoroughly  outwitted,  and  that  our  English 
fashion  has  carried  the  day,  though  I  did  de 
pend  upon  you,  my  lord,  for  a  casting  vote  in 
my  favor,"  she  said,  turning  a  playful  glance 
at  Lord  Amidown. 

"  I  recant,  1  racant,"  said  Lord  Amidown, 
quickly,  won  by  the  half  coquettish,  half 
earnest  appeal  that  he  had  interpreted  in  the 
glance  from  Clara's  lovely  eyes.  "I  do  re 
cant,  upon  my  soul.  I  am  certainly  in  fa 
vor  of  the  turban  and  the  yashmack ;  in  fact 
it  is  a  deplorable  truth,  that  none  but  the 
Orientals  know  how  to  dress  gracefully." 

"  Excellent ;  a  convert,  a  convert,"  exclaimed 
Clara,  in  seeming  delight. 

Edith  clapped  her  hands  playfully,  and 
laughed  at  the  scene. 

"  I'll  shiver  a  lance  with  him  who  gainsays 
it,"  continued  Lord  Amidown,  half  in  earnest, 
warmed  up  by  the  recent  smiles  of  Clara, 
who  thanked  Jiim  for  thus  supporting  her 
choice. 

"To  my  mind,"  said  Walter,  trying  to 
provoke  the  playful  controversy  still  farther, 
"  a  Turkish  lady  with  all  her  flowing  ample- 
ness  of  dress,  is  not  a  bad  representative  of  a 
ship's  canvass  all  spread,  alow  and  aloft." 

"  Now,  Walter,"  said  Clara,  "  if  you  cast 
such  reflections  upon  my  choice,  I  will  scold 
you  for  bringing  in  your  nautical  comparisons, 
which  I  cannot  teach  you  to  drop." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Walter,  laughing,  "  I'll 
trespass  no  more." 

"You  support  Miss  Clara  in  her  Moslem 
fancy,  then?"  asked  Mr.  Steaton  of  his  lord 
ship. 


172 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  Most  decidedly,"  he  replied.  "  I  will 
have  a  turban  and  half  moon  engraven  upon 
my  seal." 

"  Thou  gallant  and  devoted  knight,"  said 
Clara,  laughing. 

"  And  yet  one  can't  deny  that  the  Neapoli 
tan  costume  is  novel,  graceful  and  pictur 
esque,"  continued  Lord  Amidown,  catching 
the  sweet  expression  of  Edith's  faee  turned 
towards  him. 

<;  There,  what  reliance  can  be  placed  upon 
the  faith  of  man  !  O,  you  fickle  monster," 
exclainfed  Clara,  laughing  heartily,  "  why 
that  was  Edith's  vote." 

"  Indeed  ;  well,  upon  a  second  thought," 
said  Lord  Amidown,  laughing,  though  a  little 
confused,  "  I  think  half  the  dress  should 
be  Turkish,  and  the  other  half  Italian." 

"  How,  my  lord,"  said  Clara,  while  her 
eyes  sparkled  with  fixe  and  humor,  "  the  right 
side  in  one  mode,  and  the  left  in  another,  as 
Punch  wears  his  colors  at  the  show  ?" 

"No,  no,  no !"  exclaimed  his  lordship,  hold 
ing  up  both  hands. 

"  0,  I  see,  you  mean  latitudinally,  not 
longitudinally,"  said  Clara,  laughing  heartily, 
and  making  the  motions  with  her  hands  to 
signify  her  meaning. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Miss  Clara,  I  believe  it 
would  be  safer  to  be  on  your  side,"  said  Lord 
Amidown. 

Though  as  they  passed  to  the  supper  room 
that  night,  Edith  leaned  upon  Walters  arm, 
and  Clara  upon  Lord  Amidown's,  yet  to  a 
careful  observer,  one  who  could  read  the  wiles 
of  the  heart,  it  was  apparent  that  the  gentle 
men  would  have  been  pleased  to  have  ex 
changed  partners.  Even  Sir  Robert  thought 
he  noticed  this,  and  as  it  materially  affected 
the  spirit  of  the  plans  he  had  formed,  he 
mused  thoughtfully  upon  the  indication.  Be 
fore  they  left  the  supper  room  again  to  return 
to  the  parlor,  Sir  Robert  joined  them,  resolv 
ed  if  possible  to  test  the  suspicion  which  had 
found  place  in  his  mind,  and  he  cunningly 
managed  it  so  that  in  the  return,  Walter  and 
Lord  Amidown  had  in  reality  changed  part 
ners.  The  result  of  this  change  was  such  as 
to  make  him  more  thoughtful  and  anxious 
within  his  own  breast  than  before. 

Edith,  though  perhaps  of  a  more  retiring 
disposition  than  her  young  friend  Clara,  was 
yet  by  no  means  tame.  Her  spirits  were  gay 


and  flowing,  but  she  seemed  rather  to  follow 
her  companion's  lead  than  to  advance  herself, 
and  yet  in  conversation  she  evinced  that  pow 
er  of  mind  and  soundness  of  judgment  which 
we  are  wont  to  look  for  only  in  those  whose 
experience  has  been  of  the  most  extended 
character.  Though  all  were  delighted  and 
attracted  by  the  gay,  overflowing  spirits  and 
quick  wit  of  Clara,  yet  it  might  be  doubted 
if  they  thought  of  her  when  she  was  absent, 
so  much  or  so  tenderly  as  they  did  of  Edith. 
The  impression  she  left  upon  the  mind  was 
more  evanescent,  though  no  less  pleasing  than 
that  of  her  adopted  sister. 

Sir  Robert  Brompton  seemed  much  bound 
up  in  the  two  children,  as  he  familiarly  called 
them,  and  one  thing  was  very  certain,  they 
both  loved  him  with  the  most  undivided  and 
sincere  affection.  If  he  strove  to  think  within 
himself  that  he  loved  Edith  better  than  Clara, 
the  gentle  voice  and  winning  manner  of  the 
new  comer  sprang 'up  before  his  mind's  eye, 
and  he  found  that  there  was  an  undefinable 
fascination  about  her  voice,  her  manner,  and 
her  presence,  that  had  most  indelibly  fixed  her 
also  upon  his  heart. 

Thus  Sir  Robert  often  found  himself  watch 
ing  her  movements  and  expression  of  face, 
and  listening  most  intently  to  the  sweet  mu 
sic  of  her  voice,  all  forgetful  of  the  presence 
of  those  about  him,  or  the  associations  of  the 
hour  and  the  place.  All  these  influences  ap 
peared  to  force  themselves  upon  his  mind ; 
they  were  not  the  result  of  any  endeavor  to 
realize  an  interest  in  the  subject  of  them,  but 
seemed  to  come  over  Clara's  protector  with 
irresistible  force. 

Notwithstanding  this  affection  for  her  com 
panion,  he  still  seemed  to  cherish  for  Edith 
the  warmest  regard  and  love,  and  indeed,  as 
we  have  before  said,  earnestly  hoped  to  see 
her  one  day  the  wife  of  Walter  Manning, 
whom  he  regarded  with  but  little  less  affection  ; 
and  he  looked  upon  the  two  as  his  future 
heirs,  or  rather  his  principal  heirs,  for  he  found 
himself  so  nearly  allied  in  his  regard  for  Cla 
ra,  that  he  had  promised  himself  to  appropri 
ate  for  her  benefit  a  most  princely  endow 
ment.  And  her  patron  had  told  her  this  in 
his  kindness. 

Sir  Robert  had  more  than  once  resolved  to 
talk  seriously  with  Walter  upon  the  matter  to 
which  we  have  referred,  but  somehow  delicacy 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


173 


always  forbade  the  first  advance,  and  though 
he  still  had  the  subject  of  their  future  union 
very  near  at  heart,  yet  he  never  seemed  to 
have  the  necessary  spirit  to  broach  the  sub 
ject  to  Walter.  The  late  scene  in  the  draw 
ing  room  which  Sir  Robert  had  closely  noted, 
had  given  him  much  trouble,  and  to  almost 
any  one  present  on  that  occasion,  it  was  very 
evident  that  Walter  was  more  at  home  with 
Clara  than  with  Edith. 

"  Walter,"  said  Sir  Robert,  one  day  about 
this  time,  "  you  are  very  intimate  with  Edith 
and  Clara." 

"  Intimate,  Sir  Robert  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  mean  to  say  that  you  seem  never 
so  happy  as  when  in  their  company." 

"  That  is  true,  Sir  Robert,  I  am  never  so 
happy  as  when  with  them." 

"Or  perhaps  it  would  be  more  correct  to 
say,  when  with  her." 

"  Which,  Sir  Robert  ?"  asked  Walter,  color 
ing  not  a  little. 

"  Which  ?  why  the  one  you  most  prefer,  of 
course,  Walter." 

Walter  saw   at  once   the   meaning   of  Sir 

Robert's  query,  but  let  his  preference  be  what 

it  might,  he  was  not  prepared  to  express  it  to 

.  any  one,  not  even  to  Sir  Robert,  whom  he 

deemed  to  be  his  best  friend. 

Sir  Robert  saw  this  reluctance,  and  of 
course  said  no  more  upon  the  subject,  though 
he  had  hoped  to  satisfy  his  mind  upon  a  sub 
ject  which  was  most  nearly  allied  to  his  peace 
of  mind. 

"  See  you  at  the  club  to-night,  Walter  ?" 
he  asked,  turning  away. 

"  Most  likely  I  shall  drop  in  by  twelve,  Sir 
Robert,"  he  answered. 

We  do  not  wish  to  intimate  that  Walter 
Manning  had  seriously  said  to  himself  within 
his  own  heart  that  he  preferred  Clara  to  Edith. 
By  no  means,  nor  had  his  conduct  decidedly 
evinced  any  token  of  this  character.  If  he 
did  prefer  her,  he  had  never  yet  realized  the 
fact,  but  that  he  had  'entertained  something 
more  than  a  brotherly  interest  and  regard  for 
Edith  before  the  time  of  her  abduction,  he 


had  even  acknowledged  again  and  again  to 
himself,  but  to  Edith  .herself  he  had  never 
said  a  syllable  to  this  effect. 

As  it  regarded  his  feelings  towards  Clara, 
he  was  attached  to  her  by  her  companionable 
qualities,  pleased  with  her  wit  and  spirit,  and 
yet  not  so  much  so  as  to  fail  in  rendering  to 
Edith  the  constant  and  grateful  attention  that 
he  had  'ever  accorded  to  her,  and  with  doubt 
less  as  much  pleasure  both  to  himself  and  her 
as  ever. 

Indeed  the  fact  of  his  more  earnest  suit  to 
Clara  had  seemed  to  render  him  more  free 
and  easy  with  Edith  than  he  had  ever  been 
before,  for  though  she  loved  him  as  an  earnest 
friend,  yet  when  he  had  thought  himself  most 
fondly  attached  to  her,  she  at  heart  was  the 
same  as  now. 

"  To  him  she  was 
Even  as  a  sister — but  no  more." 

Still  there  was  an  attendant  delicacy  that  it 
was  impossible  not  to  realize  under  such  cir 
cumstances,  that  was  now  entirely  removed  It 
even  gave  Edith  no  little  pleasure  to  see  Wal 
ter  so  intimate  and  so  kind  to  Clara,  and 
both  of  them  felt  that  they  had  Edith's  kind 
est  and  most  constant  regard.  Walter  had 
even  thought  of  making  a  confident  of  Edith 
touching  his  regard  for  her  companion,  and 
more  especially  since  he  had  become  convinc 
ed  by  observation  that  Lord  Amidown  was  so 
warmly  attached  to  her.  He  thought  that 
some  such  thing  might  serve  to  settle  the 
matter  between  them  as  to  the  regard  he  had 
himself  once  borne  for  her. 

As  to  the  girls  themselves,  we  have  said 
nothing  thus  far  touching  the  secret  prompt 
ings  of  their  hearts.  Perhaps  they  had  no 
fixed  thoughts  upon  the  subject.  They  were 
most  happy,  grateful,  and  pleased  with  Walter, 
and  with  every  one  who  showed  them  marked 
kindness.  Both  Edith  and  Clara  were  in  re 
ality  too  young  to  have  any  settled  preference 
as  it  regarded  the  matters  of  the  heart;  but 
these  passions  were  soon  to  be  developed,  as 
the  thread  of  the  story  will  show. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 


THE  GAMBLER. 


Dig  as  much  gold,  boys,  as  you  like,  but  don't  gamble. 


FREMONT. 


ABOUT  eleven  o'clock  one  night,  not  long 
subsequent  to  the  date  of  our  last  chapter,  Sir 
.Robert  Brotnpton  found  himself  with  a  party 
of  gay  friends  coming  out  of  the  opera  house, 
when  one  of  them  suggested  that  they  should 
order  their  vehicles  to  drive  round  to  St. 
James  street,  and  drop  into  some  one  of  the 
numerous  gambling  houses,  for  variety's  sake, 
and  take  an  observation  as  to  how  they  car 
ried  sail  there.  It  would  be  a  change  in  the 
ordinary  routine  of  life,  and  they  were  weary 
of  the  stupidity  of  the  town. 

None  of  the  associates  of  Sir  Robert  were 
of  a  class  upon  whom  such  a  visit  could  possi 
bly  exercise  any  hurtful  Influence,  being  almost 
without  an  exception  men  who  had  long  since 
settled  in  life,  and  had  lived  their  day  of  dis 
sipation  and  recklessness  years  gone  by,  men 
mostly  of  his  own  age,  with  whom  he  was 
accustomed  to  meet  at  the  clubs,  and  now 
and  then  to  visit  the  opera  with,  or  to  join 
over  the  convivial  board  on  social  occasions, 
This  being  the  case,  and  there  still  being  a 
full  hour  before  the  usual  supper  time,  the 
party  generally  consented  to  the  proposal,  and 
they  drove  round  to  the  most  celebrated  of  the 
gaming  hells. 

Paying  the  entrance  fee  at  the  door,  the 
party  entered  the  establishment,  and  lounging 


into  the  splendidly  furnished  saloon,  soon 
separated  into  couples,  or  strolled  here  and 
there  among  the  excited  players.  Most  of 
these  were  young  men  taking  their  first  les 
sons  in  the  hateful  vice,  and  buying  experi 
ence  at  a  fearful  risk  and  expense. 

Sir  Robert  looked  with  a  secret  shudder 
upon  the  forlorn  and  hopeless  expression  of 
more  than  one  face,  the  owner  of  which  had  lost 
doubtless  his  last  penny.  In  some  he  could 
read  the  demon-like  passions  that  led  them 
on  to  stake  hundred  after  hundred,  until  per 
haps  a  momentary  change  made  them  win 
ners,  and  then'he  observed  the  almost  assassin- 
like  spirit  that  beamed  from  their  eyes  as 
they  gathered  in  the  golden  pile  once  more, 
seeming  to  gloat  over  it  as  they  did  so.  "  Is 
it  possible,"  he  said  to  himself,  "that  men 
endowed  with  souls,  and  the  powers  of  intel 
lect,  will  voluntarily  make  such  slaves,  such 
fools  of  themselves,  losing  as  they  must  do, 
all  self-respect,  and  bondaging  themselves  to 
the  spirit  of  evil?" 

Those  who  permanently  held  these  tables, 
were  always  experienced  gamblers,  employed 
by  the  establishment  upon  a  share  of  the 
profits,  as  well  as  a  fixed  salary.  These  were 
chosen  for  their  cunning,  and  perhaps  not 
unfrequently,  for  their  ability  at  intrigue  and 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


175 


cheating,  for  there  never  was  an  honest  gam 
bler  ;  indeed  such  a  case  would  form  a  para 
dox.  In  a  few  instances  females  were  em 
ployed,  and  here  and  there  among  the  gaming 
tables,  Sir  Robert  saw  one  of  this  class,  filling 
the  banker's  chair.  These  employees  were 
chosen  first  for  their  attractive  qualities  as  it 
regarded  their  personal  beauty  and  manners, 
and  then  for  the  possession  of  those  qualities 
which  best  adapted  them  to  play  the  evil  part 
that  was  expected  of  them.  It  is  true  that 
such  were  generally  calculated  as  decoys  for 
new  beginners,  and  old  hands  rarely  played 
at  these  tables.  But  they  played  indiscrimin 
ately  with  all  who  visited  this  temple  of  for 
tune,  as  the  gambling  saloon  was  denominated 
in  rich  gilt  letters  over  the  arched  and  richly 
ornamented  entrance.  Everything  was  in  a 
style  of  splendor  calculated  to  dazzle  and 
bewilder  the  uninitiated. 

The  controlling  mind  that  governed  the 
gambling  house  referred  to,  must  have  been  a 
master  spirit,  though  its  powers  were  exerted 
for  evil.  A  consummate  knowledge  of  human 
nature  and  the  habits  of  men  of  the  world, 
could  alone  have  dictated  so  perfect  an  ar 
rangement  in  all  respects,  one  so  well  calculated 
to  win  and  attract  the  visiters  to  come  again. 
The  principal  saloon  or  gaming  room,  lined 
with  mirrors  in  gilt  frames,  was  dazzling  in 
its  brilliancy ;  the  ceiling  and  cornice  work 
elaborately  gilded  and  painted  in  fresco.  The 
furniture  is  all  solid  and  of  the  most  costly 
and  recherche  pattern.  But  let  us  turn  for  a 
moment  into  this  ante-room;  it  is  a  supper 
hall,  where  a  most  sumptuous  and  free  repast 
is  nightly  supplied,  and  where  the  choicest 
and  best  wines  are  liberally  furnished  without 
charge,  for  the  cunning  proprietor  knows  full 
well  that  its  potent  influence  will  presently 
unloose  the  purse  strings  of  those  who  partake, 
when  they  shall  retire  to  the  hazard  room. 

All  these  belongings  Sir  Robert  minutely 
inspected,  and  although  they  were  not  abso 
lutely  new  to  his  experience,  yet  they  sug 
gested  a  train  of  reflections  that  a  careful 
observer  might  have  detected  in  his  eyes  and 
manner. 

At  this  moment  he  saw  a  person  draw  near 
to  one  of  the  tables  referred  to,  and  at  which 
a  female  presided.  The  stranger  placed  a 
hundred  pounds  upon  the  velvet  cloth  of  the 
table,  and  bowing  to  the  female,  indicated  his 


challenge.  Sir  Robert  paused  for  a  moment 
to  witness  the  result  of  the  hazard,  and  see 
which  should  be  the  winner.  A  few  seconds 
of  time  decided  the  stake,  and  he  saw  that 
the  female  had  lost.  It  seemed,  however,  not 
to  disconcert  her  at  all,  but  to  be  too  much  a 
matter  of  business  to  create  any  great  degree 
of  feeling  as  it  regarded  the  result.  She  who 
held  the  bank  was  in  many  respects  a  remark 
able  person,  rather  tall  and  commanding  in 
figure,  with  a  fine,  expressive  and  intellec 
tual  face,  but  yet  Sir  Robert  could  see  that 
constant  excitement  caused  by  her  peculiar 
occupation  had  given  it  premature  lines,  and 
a  deep  shadowing  of  care  and  thoughtful- 
ness  that  seemed  to  his  suggestive  mind  to  be 
the  record  of  past  crime  and  misery,  and  the 
memory  as  well  of  many  a  noble  and  generous 
heart  that  she  had  helped  to  destroy.  Once 
she  caught  Sir  Robert's  eye  bent  upon  her 
while  his  mind  was  thus  exercised,  and  seem 
ing  to  read  the  thoughts  that  rushed  thickly 
upon  his  brain,  her  own  eyes  sunk  at  once, 
and  Sir  Robert  thought  he  maiked  a 
heightened  color  upon  her  cheek,  and  a 
quickened  breathing  in  her  he  gazed  upon. 

He  sighed  himself  at  the  picture  before  him, 
but  said  nothing  as  he  carefully  observed  the 
manner  of  the  girl.  That  which  we  have 
described  had  all  passed  in  a  moment  of  time. 

"  Do  you  double  ?"  she  asked,  looking  at 
the  winner,  while  she  shook  the  dice  enticing 
ly  towards  him. 

"  Double,"  answered  the  one  addressed, 
quietly,  while  the  money  was  left  in  the 
centre  of  the  table  before  her. 

"  First,  if  you  please,"  he  said,  conceding 
the  throw  to  her,  and  then  taking  the  die,  he 
followed  her  with  a  quick,  careless  throw, 
that  showed  he  was  no  stranger  to  the  game 
he  was  playing. 

The  number  that  each  had  made  was  regis 
tered,  still  the  gentleman  had  won. 

"  Double  again  ?"  asked  the  female,  com 
placently,  looking  in  his  face. 

"  Certainly,  if  you  please,"  said  the  winner, 
moving  the  four  hundred  pounds  into  one  pile 
for  her  to  cover. 

"  Good,"  said  the  female,  taking  the  ne 
cessary  sum  from  the  drawer  before  her. 

The  money  was  at  once  set,  the  dice  as 
quickly  thrown,  and  the  female  looked  up  with 
a  marked  expression  of  surprise  as  she  observed 


176 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


that  fortune  had  a  third  time  favored  her  an 
tagonist.  The  eight  hundred  pounds  were  al 
lowed  to  remain  upon  the  table  and  the  bank 
meeting  the  stakes,  sixteen  hundred  now  lay 
exposed  before  them  and  subject  to  the  next 
throw  of  the  fickle  dice.  Each  party  threw 
the  allotted  number  of  times,  when  a  quick 
glow  upon  the  female's  face  and  an  impatient 
biting  of  the  lip,  showed  that  she  had  again, 
to  her  astonishment,  lost  the  game  But 
knowing  full  well  that  he  who  doubles  con 
stantly  must  eventually  lose,  she  said,  with 
a  forced  smile : 

"  Will  you  set  me  once  more,  sir?"  at  the 
same  time  adding  to  the  pile  of  bank  notes 
before  them  two  little  bags,  making  the  whole 
sum  three  thousand  two  hundred  pounds. 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  winner,  in  reply  to 
her  request,  and  whose  good  fortune  seemed 
not  to  elate  him  in  the  least.  "  Do  the  bags 
contain  the  necessary  sum?" 
"  Yes,  they  are  labelled." 
"  Very  good,  proceed." 
This  time  the  female  seemed  to  use  more 
caution  than  before,  and  to  be  slower  in  her 
throw  of  the  dice.  In  the  three  casts  she 
scored  thirty-six,  a  high  number,  and  she 
looked  at  her  antagonist  with  ill  suppressed 
satisfaction  and  with  an  increased  glow  upon 
her  cheek,  that  said  in  dumb  show,  "beat 
that  if  you  can,  sir ;  fortune  runs  not  all  one 
way."  There  were  other  faces  now  gathered 
about  them  that  sided  with  her,  and  expressed 
as  much  in  their  looks. 

The  gentleman  threw  again  with  a  steady 
hand  as  before,  when  the  female  cried : 
"  Eighteen  !" 

"  Eighteen,"  repeated  a  half  score  of  in 
terested  spectators. 

Again  the  dice  rattled  in  the  little  leather 
box,  and  lay  upon  the  table. 

"  Twelve  !"  said  the  female,  now  rising  in 
her  excitement  and  bending  over  the  table. 

"  Twelve,"  again  repeated  the  by-standers, 
little  less  interested. 

Once  more  the  dice  were  raised  and  cast 
carelessly  upon  the  table. 

"  Twelve !"  repeated  the  female,  sinking 
back  in  her  chair,  with  the  greatest  disap 
pointment.  "  This  is  very  strange,"  she  con 
tinued,  turning  to  a  friend  by  her  side,  who 
had  also  been  observing  the  game. 

A  smile  only  played  about  the  mouth  of  the 


winner ;  he  spoke  not  a  word.  He  had  thrown 
forty-two,  and  the  money  was  his,  though  he 
did  not  put  his  hands  upon  it,  preferring  rather 
to  mark  the  expression  of  the  female  be 
fore  him.  Sir  Robert  thought  that  he 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  pain  and  disappointment 
of  his  antagonist  far  more  than  he  did  the 
winnings  that  lay  before  him.  It  was  impos 
sible  for  the  woman  to  disguise  her  feelings 
and  her  extraordinary  chagrin.  The  loss  had 
excited  her  so  much  that  she  was  forced  to 
toss  her  feet  and  drum  upon  the  table  with  her 
hand,  to  prevent  the  discovery  of  the  tremor 
that  actually  shook  her  frame. 

Two  or  three  persons  who  had  been  close 
observers  of  the  singular  game,  stepped  up  to 
the  stranger  as  they  noticed  that  he  still  left 
the  money  upon  the  table,  and  without  hesi 
tation,  though  manifestly  strangers  to  him, 
asked  him  if  it  was  possible  that  he  could  be 
so  imprudent  as  to  tempt  the  chances  of  the 
game  still  farther  ?  "  Fortune  has  strangely 
smiled  upon  you  to-night,"  said  one  close  by 
his  side,  "  but  if  you  tempt  her  too  far,  she 
may  frown  in  turn."  To  all  he  only  returned 
a  half  vacant  smile,  and  seemed  still  to  glance 
from  the  money  to  the  female,  and  laugh 
again,  as  though  he  were  studying  her  feelings 
at  her  great  loss.  She  in  the  meantime  re 
garded  him  with  mingled  surprise  and  regret, 
while  all  paused  to  see  what  he  would  do. 
At  last  relieving  his  breast  by  a  long  drawn 
sigh,  and  arousing  to  a  new  consciousness  of 
things  about  him,  he  said  : 

"  Will  madame  double  ?" 

"  Again  ?"  asked  the  female,  in  amazement 
at  his  temerity. 

"  Again,"  he  answered. 

"  Certainly,"  she  said,  borrowing  a  part  of 
the  necessary  sum  from  an  adjoining  table. 

"  All  being  prepared  and  the  money  proper 
ly  stacked,  the  stranger  said : 

"  Throw  first,  if  you  please." 

The  female  paused  for  a  moment ;  she  felt 
confident  that  the  extraordinary  luck  which 
had  fallen  to  the  stranger's  share  could  not 
still  favor  him,  but  yet  she  threw  the  dice 
three  times  and  scored : 

"  Forty"  she  exclaimed,  in  an  excited  tone  ; 
"  but  a  miracle  can  beat  even  that,"  she  con 
tinued,  sarcastically. 

Her  antagonist  seemed  to  have  no  words  to 
spare ;  he  answered  her  not,  but  smiling 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


177 


blandly,  took  the  dice,  and  throwing  them 
three  times,  smiled  again,  as  a  half  dozen 
persons  exclaimed : 

u  Forty!" 

"  Forty — a  tie,"  said  the  female,  in  amaze 
ment.  "Do  you  withdraw  now,  or  shall  a 
single  throw  decide  it  ?" 

"  It  is  the  best  way,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  and  the  shortest.  Let  a  single  throw  decide 
between  us  which  takes  the  stakes." 

The  extraordinary  fortune  that  had  attend 
ed  the  winner  had,  as  we  have  already  said, 
drawn  many  curious  witnesses  about  the  table 
where  he  was  playing,  and  even  Sir  Robert 
found  his  own  interest  of  no  slight  character; 
he  watched  the  result  with  the  warmest  curi 
osity,  and  in  common  with  the  rest  now  drew 
still  nearer  to  the  parties  to  note  the  final 
throw  that  should  decide  the  ownership  of  so 
much  money.  Even  in  that  place  it  was 
unusual  to  see  so  large  a  sum  staked  at  once, 
as  no  thoughtful  person  ever  permits  him 
self  to  double  upon  the  winning  certainly 
more  than  once,  but  the  oldest  gamblers  play 
for  moderate  sums  at  a  single  chance,  unless 
they  play  unfairly. 

As  had  been  the  case  before,  the  female 
threw  first,  and  with  a  voice  that  betrayed  her 
feelings,  exclaimed  : 

"  Eighteen !" 

This  he  could  not  beat :  it  was  the  highest 
single  number.  He  might  equal  it,  and  thus 
there  would  be  another  tie.  This  he  knew 
very  well,  and  also  that  according  to  every 
precedent,  he  was  sure  to  lose.  But  he  was 
still  unruffled,  smiled,  and  threw  the  dice  as 
calmly  as  he  yet  had  done  in  the  game. 

"  Twelve !"  said  the  female,  with  a  startled 
energy  that  caused  her  voice  to  be  heard  dis 
tinctly  in  every  part  of  the  room,  while  she 
gathered  in  the  money  into  the  bank,  and 
arranged  her  table  once  more  for  fresh  play. 

A  moment's  pause  ensued,  when  the  female 
asked,  with  a  smile : 

"  Will  you  play  again?" 
12 


There  was  no  reply,  the  gambler  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  himself. 

"  Will  you  play  once  more  ?"  repeated  the 
woman,  in  a  louder  tone. 

The  gambler  started  as  from  a  reverie,  and 
answered  quickly  : 

"  Not  to-night,  not  to-night." 

"  You  are  satisfied  ?"  she  asked,  bkndly. 

"  Entirely." 

"  You  lose  like  a  hero,"  said  a  rough  person 
by  his  side. 

"  Sir  ?"  said  the  strange  man,  in  a  tone 
that  made  the  speaker  recoil. 

"  I  said  you  lost  like  a  hero,"  repeated  the 
other,  less  boisterously. 

"  It  is  my  own  business,  sir,  and  concerns 
myself  alone,"  said  the  gambler,  frowning 
darkly  upon  the  other,  as  he  turned  to  go  away. 

Wondering  at  the  singular  game  he  had 
played,  and  at  the  coolness  that  could  enable 
a  man  to  remain  unmoved,  and  see  so  much 
money  one  moment  his  and  the  next  lost  for 
ever,  Sir  Robert  examined  him  with  much 
interest,  and  fixed  his  eyes  intently  upon  the 
stranger.  As  he  raised  his  head  from  the  ta 
ble  where  he  had  been  playing,  and  turned 
calmly  to  leave  it,  his  eyes  met  those  of  Sir 
Robert,  and  both  started  as  though  some 
strange  recollection  came  suddenly  ove»them, 
some  vivid  memory  of  the  past.  At  first  the 
gambler  seemed  as  if  he  desired  to  avoid  a 
further  recognition  or  acquaintance,  but  as  Sir 
Robert  still  fixed  his  eyes  upon  him  earnestly, 
he  appeared  to  think  it  best  to  appear  uncon 
cerned,  and  with  the  same  air  of  coolness 
which  had  characterized  his  movements  at  the 
table,  even  approached  him  still  nearer. 

"  We  have  met  before,"  said  Sir  Robert, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "or  my  memory 
serves  me  poorly." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  replied  the  singular  person 
age  who  had  created  so  much  interest  for  the 
time  being.  "  Let  us  walk  into  the  air,  if  you 
are  not  engaged.  I  am  somewhat  heated 
with  this  game  and  the  close  room." 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 


AN    OLD    ACQUAINTANCE. 


The  times  have  been 

That  when  the  brains  were  out,  the  man  would  die, 
And  there  an  end — but  now  they  rise  again. 


MACBETH. 


SIK  ROBERT  and  the  stranger  passed  from 
brilliantly  lighted  saloon  where  the  scene 
we  have  described  had  just  taken  place,  into 
the  little  court  before  the  house,  and  paused 
beneath  the  street  lamp  that  was  posted  by 
one  of  the  pillars  of  the  gate  leading  into 
the  enclosure.  The  gambler  wiped  the  per 
spiration  from  his  forehead,  and  seemed  to 
obtain  singular  relief  from  the  change  of  at 
mosphere  that  he  now  realized,  They  stood 
there  for  a  moment  in  silence,  Sir  Robert 
gazing  upon  the  countenance  of  his  compan 
ion  with  an  earnest  look,  and  striving  to  recall 
the  place  where  he  had  met  that  countenance 
before.  But  it  was  all  in  vain,  he  was  com 
pletely  puzzled,  until  at  last,  when  some  mo 
ments  had  expired  and  the  gambler  had  ap 
parently  once  more  quite  recovered  himself 
from  the  excitement  which  he  must  necessari 
ly  have  felt,  notwithstanding  the  outward 
calmness  which  he  had  evinced  and  which 
had  created  so  much  surprise  among  those 
who  witnessed  his  game,  Sir  Robert  said : 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  sir,  when  we  have  met 
before,  and  where  ?" 

"  It  is  a  little  singular  that  you  should  have 
forgotten  me,"  said  the  gambler,  musing, 
"  though  many  years  have  passed  since  we 
met.  I  know  that  I  have  altered  much,  but  I 
knew  you  in  a  moment." 

« Indeed  ?" 


Yes.' 


"  The  name  and  locality  I  have  forgotten, 
but  not  the  face ;  that  lives  fresh  in  my  mem 
ory,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

"  You  have  good  reason  to  remember  it,  I 
should  think,"  said  the  gambler,  smiling  with 
a  deep  meaning. 

"  Many  years,  you  say,  have  passed,"  con 
tinued  Sir  Robert;  "perhaps  it  was  in  India 
that  we  met." 

"  You  cannot  remember  ?" 
-  "No." 

"It  was  not  in  India,"  said  the  gambler, 
"  but  in  the  valley  of  the  Rhine." 

"  The  Rhine,  the  Rhine,"  said  Sir  Robert, 
repeating  the  words  rapidly,  as  though  with 
them  all  the  train  of  thought  which  he  had 
sought  came  back  to  him.  "  The  valley  of 
the  Rhine,  say  you  ?" 

"  Ah !  you  remember  me  now,"  said  the 
gambler,  smiling  with  a  sarcastic  expression 
as  he  gazed  upon  Sir  Robert. 

"  You  were  the  traveller  that  I  met  at  the 
inn  of  Mornentz,"  said  Sir  Robert,  gazing  at 
him  with  interest. 

"  Or  rather  the  robber  chief,"  said  the  other, 
bending  his  wrinkled  face  upon  Sir  Robert  as 
he  spoke.  "  We  know  each  other  now,  why 
disguise  it?  I  am  Karl  Blasius,  the  robber." 

"  But  I  have  seen  you  since  then." 

"  Impossible." 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


179 


"  It  is  true." 

"  Where  ?" 

"Have  you  not  a  wound  upon  your  left 
wrist — a  sword  cut  ?" 

"  Yes,  what  of  that  ?" 

"  If  I  tell  you  where  you  received  it,  will 
you  not  believe  that  we  have  met  since  we 
parted  at  the  cave  ?" 

"  I  will,"  said  the  robber,  with  interest. 
"  Where  was  it  ?" 

"  In  the  West  Indies." 

"  Well." 

"On  board  a  sloop  manned  by  English 
men,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

"  True." 

"  And  the  man  who  wounded  you  was  a 
strong  person,  who  threw  you  into  the  sea." 

"  Ha !  I  see  you  know  all,"  said  the  gam 
bler  ;  "  and  his  name,  who  was  he  ?" 

"  He  stands  before  you,"  said  Sir  Robert, 
calmly.  "  I  could  not  recall  your  face  at  that 
exciting  moment,  though  I  knew  that  we  had 
met  before,  and  you  too  paused ;  do  you  re 
member  ?" 

"  The  succeeding  casualty  drove  all  from 
my  mind,  though  methinks  that  after  I  was 
picked  up  by  the  crew  of  the  vessel  in  which 
I  sailed,  I  did  seem  to  recall  a  face  that  appear 
ed  familiar  to  me." 

"  But  the  world  thought  you  were  dead," 
said  Sir  Robert,  "  that  you  perished  in  the  at 
tempt  at  escape." 

"  They  were  wholly  wrong,"  said  the  gam 
bler  ;  "  my  time  had  not  yet  come.  The 
hatred  I  owed  the  world  has  been  still  more 
deeply  satiated,  and  I  have  been  daily  more 
and  more  revenged,  as  you  may  well  suppose, 
knowing  what  you  know.  But  did  I  not  hear 
some  one  address  you  in  the  saloon  as  Sir 
Robert  Brompton  ?" 

"  That  is  my  name." 

"  Then  you  travelled  incog  when  you  were 
in  the  valley  of  the  Rhine." 

"  0,  no,"  said  Sir  Robert,  "  bore  my  true 
name  at  that  time." 

"  How  am  I  to  understand  you  then  ?"  ask 
ed  the  other,  with  interest. 

"  It  is  easily  explained." 

"  I  knew  you  as  Robert  Stanley,"  said  the 
gambler,  "  and  thus  your  letters  introduced 
you  to  the  leading  families  of  Bronts.  No 
one  should  know  their  import  better  than 


for  reasons  that  you  will  not  have  readily  for 
gotten." 

"  I  had  my  own  name,  for  Stanley  is  still 
attached  to  it.  At  my  father's  death  I  took 
his,  with  the  addition,  and  was  then  knighted 
by  the  king.  So  you  see  I  was  not  incog, 
after  all." 

It  was  most  singular  that  they  should  have 
met  thus,  and  the  strange  dark  man  before 
him  gazed  upon  the  ground  for  some  minutes 
in  silence,  during  which  he  seemed  to  be  re 
calling  the  picture  of  the  past,  and  a  part  of 
its  scenes  too  that  moved  him  much,  as  his 
expressive  face  evinced.  He  said : 

"  You  married  the  fair  lady  Gustine,  Sir 
Robert  Brompton,  of  course,  and  brought  her 
with  you  to  England  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  She  is  dead  these  many  years,"  said  the 
ex-robber,  hoarsely.  "  That  I  have  long  since 
been  informed  of." 

"  It  is  nearly  twelve  years  since  she  died," 
said  Sir  Robert,  calmly. 

"  Is  it  so  long  as  that  ?"  murmured  the 
strange  man,  thoughtfully. 

"  It  is  just  twelve  years,  this  very  month, 
since  her  death." 

"Then,  sir,"  continued  the  other,  with  a 
manner  and  tone  that  carried  conviction  with 
it  as  to  the  speaker's  honesty,  "  there  can  be 
no  harm  nor  indelicacy  on  my  part  in  telling 
you  how  much  I  loved  that  lady." 

"  Can  that  be  possible  ?  How  could  you 
really  have  loved  her,  and.  yet  have  deceived 
her  as  you  did,  and  have  played  the  false 
hearted  game  that  you  did  in  imprisoning 
her  ?" 

"The  false-hearted  game  that  I  played, 
was  only  false  so  far  as  I  deceived  her  in  re 
lation  to  my  name.  I  went  to  her  father's 
roof  to  win  by  stratagem  one  through  whom  I 
might  disgrace  him,  and  a  score  of  noble  fami 
lies  besides,  in  the  valley  where  we  lived. — 
But,  alas  !  I  lost  my  heart  at  the  outset,  and 
wooed  and  loved  her  from  the  time  of  our  first 
meeting,  with  my  very  soul.  The  lady  knew 
this — I  told  her  all  before  I  parted  from  her, 
previous  to  that  escape  which  you  conducted 
so  cunningly.  My  regard  was  most  honest, 
and  Heaven  bears  me  witness  that  lady 
Gustine  might  have  entirely  reformed  me, 
and  made  me  what  she  pleased.  My  whole 
soul  was  wrapped  up  in  her,  and  I  loved  her, 


180 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


sir,  as  few  men  can  love.  It  was  my  utter 
undoing  that  ever  we  met,  for  since  that  time 
I  have  never  been  the  man  1  was  before. — 
Sometimes  I  have  fancied  that  I  saw  her  be 
fore  me,  as  a  spirit,  and  then  I  have  been  lit 
tle  better  than  crazed,  and  when  I  think  long 
of  her,  I  believe  I  am  really  so." 

"  You  have  changed  much  since  I  knew 
you  on  the  Rhine,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

"  Have  I  ?"  asked  the  gambler,  abstractedly, 
seemingly  lost  in  reverie. 

"  Much,  very  much,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

Sir  Robert  could  not  but  pity  the  being  he 
saw  before  him,  so  different  from  the  manly 
and  noble  looking  individual  whom  he  had 
known  under  such  peculiar  circumstances. — 
His  brow  was  wrinkled  now,  and  in  the  deep 
stern  lines  might  be  read  the  record  of  many 
hardships,  and  yet  his  still  handsome  face  was 
marked  with  intellect  and  expression.  There 
was  a  slight  sprinkling  of  gray  too  in  his  dark 
hair,  and  his  figure,  which  had  once  been  a 
model  in  its  form,  was  now  a  little  rounded  at 
the  shoulders,  and  inclining  forward.  Sir 
Robert  could  see  that  he  had  mingled,  since 
they  had  met,  with  trouble,  dissipation  and 
debauchery  of  all  kinds,  and  that  the  hand  of 
time  already  lay  heavily  upon  him.  As  he 
made  these  observations,  the  broken-down 
man  still  mused  to  himself,  apparently  forget 
ting  all  about  him. 

"  You  had  a  singular  run  of  luck  to-night," 
said  Sir  Robert,  attempting  to  arouse  his  com 
panion. 

"Where?" 

"  At  the  bank." 

"  At  the  bank,"  said  the  gambler,  starting  ; 
"  0,  yes,  and  was  perhaps  a  fool  not  to  walk 
away  with  the  proceeds,  instead  of  waiting 
there  to  lose  them ;  but  I  never  can  do  that 
— a  devil  within  me  always  presses  me  on. — 
But  I  care  not  for  the  loss ;  it  affords  me  what 
I  so  much  desire — excitement.  I  am  lucky 
though,  with  my  chances,  and  this  is  not  a 
new  thing  with  me.  I  have  broken  a  bank 
before  this,  and  loaned  it  money  to  win  all 
back  again  from  me." 

After  a  few  minutes  of  pause  between 
them,  the  ex-robber  seemed  to  remember  him 
self. 

"  Fortune  has  thrown  us  most  singularly 
together  once  more,"  said  he,  "  but  perhaps 
we  may  never  meet  again ;  and  yet  we  may 


meet  when  you  least  expect  it,  and  least  de 
sire  it.  But  on  my  own  part,  of  course,  self- 
preservation  teaches  me  that  1  must  preserve 
my  incognita.  So,  Sir  Robert  Brompton,  1 
bid  you  a  hasty  farewell." 

Thus  saying,  the  ex-robber  turned  suddenly 
away,  and  disappeared  down  a  narrow  and 
dark  by-street,  leaving  his  companion  stand 
ing  by  himself,  quite  dumb  with  the  surprise 
that  the  few  previous  moments  had  caused. — 
It  was  a  strange  meeting,  and  under  most  sin 
gular  circumstances  ;  no  wonder  that  Sir  Rob 
ert  mused  so  thoughtfully  for  some  time. 

A  gay,  half-intoxicated  party  passing  out  of 
the  gaming  house,  started  him  at  length  from 
his  forgetfulness  of  the  present.  Some  of  the 
passers  knew  him  and  addressed  him  familiar 
ly,  desiring  him  to  join  them  in  some  propos 
ed  plan  of  amusement. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  he,  "  I  am  already  en 
gaged.  Another  time  perhaps — " 

"  No  excuses,  my  old  cove,"  cried  a  young 
fop,  half-intoxicated ;  "  come  you  must,  or 
egad  we'll  force  you." 

Sir  Robert  only  pushed  the  speaker  aside, 
as  he  would  have  removed  a  dog  from  his 
path,  and  after  a  moment's  pause  to  collect  his 
thoughts  relating  to  the  singular  events  that 
had  just  occurred,  turned  his  steps  slowly 
homeward. 

As  he  walked  on  thus  by  himself,  his  mind 
reverted  with  a  keen  retrospective  glance  to 
the  past,  and  he  reviewed  those  vivid  scenes 
of  his  life  which  had  transpired  nearly  a  score 
of  years  gone  by,  and  which  the  ex-robber  and 
gambler  had  once  more  so  vividly  recalled.  It 
was  all  once  more  pictured  before  his  mind's 
eye,  from  his  meeting  with  the  unknown  travel 
ler  at  the  little  inn  of  Mornentz,  of  their  path 
through  that  lone  and  mysterious  forest,  and 
of  his  long  imprisonment  in  the  robber's  cave. 
He  then  reviewed  the  details  of  the  deception 
that  Karl  Blasius  had  played  upon  him,  and 
of  his  stratagem  with  the  lady  Gustine,  of  her 
imprisonment  and  the  release  which  he  him 
self  effected,  of  that  startling  adventure  with 
her  in  the  forest,  even  to  the  irresistible  desire 
that  crept  over  him  to  sleep  as  he  watched, 
and  the  killing  of  the  wolf.  How  keenly  he 
recollected  each  circumstance  now,  after  so 
many  years  had  elapsed  !  Then  of  their  safe 
arrival  at  last  at  her  father's  castle,  and  the 
cordial  friendship  that  ensued,  and  which  rip- 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


ened  into  love,  and  finally  resulted  in  their 
union. 

And  as  he  still  pursued  his  way,  Sir  Robert 
went  on  with' his  contemplation  of  the  past, 
and  from  step  to  step  he  came  to  review  his 
connection  with  his  wife,  recalling  the  feelings 
of  jealousy  that  had  at  times  wrung  his  very 
heart.  Some  of  the  scenes  that  he  thus  re 
viewed  in  his  panoramic  glance  of  the  past, 
must  have  been  vivid  and  have  troubled  him 
much,  for  his  very  step  evinced  a  nervous  ir 
ritation,  and  a  dark  cloud  seemed  hanging 
over  his  brow  and  shadowing  his  very  heart. 
He  turned  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  but 
pressed  forward  steadily  on  his  way  towards 
his  home.  So  intense  were  his  meditations, 
that  a  boisterous  criminal  struggling  past  him 
in  the  hands  of  the  police  did  not  arouse  him 
at  all.  Ah!  Sir  Robert,  yours  had  been  a 
chequered  life,  and  it  was  the  one  dark  spot 
that  you  contemplated  now ;  a  portion  that  as 
yet  we  have  found  no  place  to  name,  but 
which  the  plot  of  our  story  must  ere  long  re 
veal. 

Though  Sir  Robert  Brompton  was  melan 
choly  and  troubled  in  thought,  how  quickly 
were  these  ills  dispelled  on  his  entering  his 
own  house,  when  a  soft  inquiry  from  Edith 
cast  a  ray  of  sunshine  over  his  brow,  and  her 
loving  glances  and  tender  caresses  acted  like 
balm  upon  his  wounded  and  fretful  spirit. — 
Her  words  were  so  delicate  and  well-timed, 
her  sympathy  so  abundant  without  being  in 
quisitive,  and  her  love  so  truthful  and  over 
flowing,  that  she  could  have  shared  the  keen 
est  grief.  Even  the  most  casual  observer 
would  have  marked  how  Sir  Robert  doted 
upon  the  lovely  girl,  and  though  his  lips  did 
not  frequently  lavish  praise  upon  her,  yet  his 
eyes  betrayed  how  closely  the  gentle  being  be 
fore  him  had  bound  herself  about  his  heart. — 
He  had  no  time  for  sorrow  and  regret  in  her 
presence ;  all  was  gladness  and  joy  while  she 
was  by  his  side. 

And  no  one  would  have  wondered  at  this, 
who  had  seen  her  there  watching  him  so  ten 
derly,  ever  thoughtful  of  his  presence,  and 
ever  striving  first  of  all  to  please  him,  and  then 
to  render  herself  agreeable  to  others.  Sir 
Robert  saw  and  marked  this  well,  for  his  eyes 
were  constantly  upon  her,  and  he  noticed  her 
simplest  movements.  Nor  was  it  a  matter  of 
surprise  that  she  should  have  gained  such  in 


fluence  over  him  ;  a  heart  of  stone  must  have 
been  instinctively  drawn  towards  so  sweet  a 
being.  Thus  besieged  by  her  child-like  love 
and  devotion,  adamant  itself  must  have  yield 
ed  to  such  an  irresistible  current  of  affection. 
And  how  natural  it  all  was  on  Edith's  part, 
how  natural  and  honest  in  every  prompting ! 
There  was  so  much  to  draw  out  her  love  from 
the  still  remote  depths  of  the  heart,  for  every 
one  and  everything  in  that  princely  establish 
ment  seemed  devoted  to  her  will  and  service. 
And  then  Sir  Robert  had  rescued  her  from  a 
situation  to  which  she  could  not  refer  even  in 
memory,  without  a  blanched  cheek  and  a  shud 
dering  frame.  He  was  the  first  human  being 
who  had  ever  been  really  kind  to  her  that  she 
could  remember,  and  the  only  one  whom  she 
felt  that  she  might  love  with  all  the  tenderness 
of  her  affection. 

O,  it  was  a  most  joyous  thing  for  that  young 
heart  to  find  an  idol  for  its  fondest  affection,  so 
capable  was  it  of  love,  and  so  dormant  and 
neglected  had  its  sweet  fountain  of  dear  hom 
age  been  until  now.  But  once  undammed  and 
its  current  permitted  to  flow  freely  with  all  its 
native  impulse,  a  never-dying  spring  seemed 
at  once  to  burst  forth,  finding  its  rise  in  her 
very  soul,  while  the  supply  appeared  only  to 
increase  by  the  quantity  that  was  lavished. 
She  loved  Sir  Robert,  she  loved  Mrs.  Marlow 
• — dear  woman,  how  kind  hearted  and  consid 
erate  she  was — and  then  she  loved  Walter 
and  even  the  servants  who  were  so  good  to 
her.  Indeed,  Edith's  life  had  come  to  be  one 
fountain  of  affection,  and  her  heart  a  tablet  of 
love. 

Thus  it  was  between  the  gentle  Edith  and 
Sir  Robert  Brompton,  at  this  period  of  our 
story,  and  no  wonder  with  such  a  gentle,  capti 
vating  home  influence  as  we  have  referred  to, 
the  cloud  should  have  left  his  brow  so  quickly 
after  the  exciting  scene  at  the  gaming  house, 
when  he  once  more  became  seated  in  his  own 
chair. 

But  where  was  Clara  all  this  while,  the 
dear,  well  beloved  companion  of  Edith  during 
her  exile,  and  her  adopted  sister  in  this  her 
new  home  ?  If  the  author  was  inclined  to  for 
get  her,  we  feel  confident  that  the  reader  would 
not  be.  She  too  was  there,  as  loving  and 
charming  as  ever,  casting  about  her  at  all 
times  smiles  and  jests,  so  happy  and  gladsome, 
that  she  seemed  to  be  a  stray  spirit  from  the 


182 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


realms  of  Momus.  She  was  the  life  of  all 
around  her,  and  kept  each  one  in  bursts  of  broad 
humor  by  the  very  heartiness  with  which  she 
enjoyed  and  keenly  appreciated  the  ever  oc 
curring  points  of  wit,  no  less  refined  and  deli 
cate  than  keen  and  pungent.  We  do  not  mean 
to  insinuate  that  Clara  played  the  part  of  a 
punster.  It  was  not  so  much  what  she  said 
that  kept  those  about  her  in  such  good  humor, 
as  it  was  the  light  of  her  laughing  eye  and  the 
natural  flow  of  spirits  that  constantly  emana 
ted  from  her  lips. 

"  Clara,  how  can  you  be  always  so  cheerful 
and  merry  ?"  asked  Edith. 

"  O,  one  may  as  well  laugh  as  be  sad,  Edith," 
she  answered,  pleasantly. 

"  That  may  be  true,  but  I  cannot  always 
feel  like  laughing." 

«  Feel  like  it,  Edith  ?" 

"  Yes.  Sometimes  I  am  sad  at  heart  with 
out  knowing  why." 

"  Do  you  think  when  I  am  merry  that  I  am 
always  happy,  Edith  ?" 

"Why  not,  Clara?" 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  When  people  smile,  Clara,  we  think  it  the 
reflection  of  inward  joy." 

"  Ah,  but  Edith,  I  am  often  saddest  when  I 
seem  to  be  the  most  merry.  But  that  is  of  no 
consequence.  Why  should  I  make  others  sad 
by  forcing  upon  them  my  own  troubles  ?" 

"True,  Clara.  I  never  thought  of  that; 
how  stupid  I  must  sometimes  appear." 

"  No,  no,  I  did  not  mean  that,  Edith.  You 
misunderstand  me.  You  are  far  more  truth 
ful  than  I  am,  for  if  you  feel  sad  you  look  so, 
and  if  you  are  happy  your  face  shows  it  as 
well." 

"  But  after  all,  Clara,  we  have  great  cause 
for  thankfulness,  and  should  be  very  happy, 
situated  as  we  are.  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Sometimes  I  do,  and  then  again — but  this 
is  not  often — I  think  perhaps  if  I  had  remain 
ed  in  the  station  where  I  was  born,  perhaps  I 
should  be  happier." 

"  How  is  it  possible  that  you  can  feel  thus, 
Clara  ?" 


"  Only  by  comparison." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why,  I  knew  nothing  of  the  heart-ache^ 
Edith,  until  refinement,  and  the  high  associa 
tions  that  have  encircled  us  here,  opened  my 
eyes." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Clara,  that  you 
would  be  happier  to  return  to  your  old  habits, 
and  those  from  whom  you  escaped  ?" 

"  By  no  means ;  now  I  behold  those  asso 
ciations  in  the  most  despicable  light,  because 
I  have  experienced  the  contrast ;  but  yet  I 
have  sometimes  doubted  whether  I  should  not 
have  been  happier  not  to  have  known  this 
prosperity,  and  never  to  have  shared  the  cul 
tivation  that  we  have  received  here." 

"  Yours  is  a  queer  philosophy,  Clara ;  but  I 
will  not  argue  with  you  about  it.  We  must 
strive  to  be  happy,  though  if  I  were  to  tell 
any  one  that  you  were  unhappy,  I  should  be 
laughed  at,  for  you  are  set  down  for  a  pattern 
of  merriment." 

"Few  persons  look  beneath  the  surface, 
Edith,  but,  on  the  contrary,  they  flatter  them 
selves  that  they  read  character  at  a  glance,  as 
they  would  examine  an  article  of  dress  you 
might  wear." 

"  There  is  dear  Sir  Robert — I  must  go  to 
him  at  once." 

Clara  loved  Sir  Robert,  but  not  as  Edith 
loved  him  ;  first  she  loved  him  because  he  was 
so  good  and  kind  to  Edith,  whom  Clara  set 
down  in  her  young  heart  as  the  best  creature 
living,  and  whom  she  really  loved  better  than 
any  one  else.  Then  she  regarded  him  as  her 
benefactor,  and  for  this  her  affectionate  heart 
teemed  with  gratitude  to  him ;  but  the  very 
fact  that  she  sought  for  reasons  to  love  Sir 
Robert,  was  an  evidence  in  itself  that  she  did 
not  love  him  as  Edith  did,  whose  every  faculty 
seemed  to  merge  into  this  one  affection,  and 
without  a  thought  as  to  the  cause,  yielded  its 
purest  and  most  undivided  wealth  of  fondness 
at  the  feet  of  its  idol. 

Such  was  the  character  of  the  regard  that 
each  of  the  girls  bore  Sir  Robert. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 


FIRST    LESSON  IN   LOVE. 

Cassius. — Brutus,  I  do  observe  you  now  of  lale  : 
I  have  not  from  your  eyes  that  gentleness 
And  show  of  love  as  I  was  wont  to  have. 


JULIUS  C.SSAR. 


LORD  AMIDOWN,  of  whom  we  have  already 
spoken,  was  the  son  of  an  earl,  and  the  rep 
resentative  of  one  of  the  proudest  lines  of  the 
English  aristocracy.  Besides  which  this  was 
a  period  when  the  sacredness  of  birth  and 
blood  was  most  strenuously  enforced,  a  period 
when,  comparatively  speaking,  there  were  but 
two  classes,  the  high  and  the  low.  Young 
Lord  Ami  down  was  at  that  age  when  the 
heart  is  most  impressible,  and  when  one  feels 
oneself  enslaved  at  once  by  every  pair  of  blue 
eyes  that  chances  to  look  kindly  upon  him. 
As  to  his  experience,  he  was  but  lately  free 
from  the  hands  of  the  learned  professors  of 
Oxford,  and  had  only  made  a  hurried  tour 
of  the  United  Kingdoms,  and  a  short  one  of 
the  Continent,  tarrying  for  half  a  year  at 
Paris,  just  long  enough  to  fill  his  head  with 
romance,  and  his  brain  with  the  most  exagge 
rated  ideas  of  the  beautiful  in  nature  and  art. 
But  he  was  of  a  generous  and  noble  spirit, 
nevertheless. 

Unlike  most  young  men  of  his  class  and 
birth  in  society,  the  position  to  which  he  was 
born  had  not  spoiled  him,  and  spite  of  the 
homage  that  was  paid  to  wealth  and  blood,  he 
was  little  moved  by  the  respect  that  a  thou 


sand  hangers'on  upon  the  skirts  of  fashionable 
life  were  ever  ready  to  render  him.  Though 
somewhat  above  Sir  Robert  in  the  matter  of 
position,  yet  the  princely  wealth  of  the  latter 
and  his  father's  position  during  life,  as  well  as 
that  of  his  ancestors  for  centuries  past,  remov 
ed  all  barriers  on  the  point  of  aristocratic 
etiquette.  Moreover,  he  belonged  to  the  same 
club  as  Sir  Robert,  and  it  was  there  that  they 
first  became  acquainted  with  each  other.  A 
cordial  invitation  to  his  house  had  been  re 
sponded  to  by  his  lordship,  who  there  met 
Edith  and  Clara  and  formed  their  acquaintance 
with  evident  delight. 

Being  strongly  impressed  by  the  beauty  of 
both  the  adopted  children  of  Sir  Robert,  and 
more  particularly  with  the  soft  and  winning 
loveliness  of  Edith,  he  was  a  devoted  friend 
at  once.  Lord  Amidown  showed  his  own 
taste  and  appreciation  in  his  choice  of  Edith, 
and  also  that  it  was  a  discriminating  choice, 
for  ninety-nine  in  a  hundred  at  first  sight  would 
have  been  pleased  with  the  undeniable  attrac 
tions  of  Clara,  .so  lively,  yet  so  modest  and 
handsome.  It  required  a  mind  not  unlike  her 
own,  to  fully  appreciate  the  true  and  delicate 
beauty  that  lay  half  hidden  beneath  the  scarce 
ly  less  lovely  pxtprior  of  Edith. 


184 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


Before  he  had  once  thought  of  analyzing 
the  purposes  of  his  doing  so,  Lord  Amidown 
found  himself  drawn  to  the  house  of  Sir  Kob- 
ert  Brompton  with  a  frequency  and  regularity 
that  began  to  cause  not  a  little  remark  among 
his  friends  at  the  club.  Besides  which,  it 
served  as  a  theme  for  gossip  among  the  blue 
stockings,  whose  peculiar  province  it  was  to 
preside  over  the  actions  and  motives  of  their 
neighbors — a  class,  thank  heaven,  that  is 
gradually  fading  away  from  the  better  circles 
of  society.  Though  this  gossip  and  the  more 
licensed  raillery  of  his  companions  annoyed 
him  perhaps  in  some  degree,  yet  it  did  not  de 
ter  him  in  the  least  from  the  regular  continu 
ance  of  his  visits. 

Yet  these  jeers  and  reflections  did  have  one 
important  effect,  and  doubtless  a  beneficial  one 
upon  himself;  it  led  him  to  analyze  his  own 
feelings  carefully,  and  to  ask  himself  what  it 
was  indeed  that  drew  him  hither?" 

One  serious  glance  at  his  heart  and  its  se 
cret  promptings  while  in  this  mood,  served  to 
show  him  that  he  was  undeniably  in  love.  It 
awoke  him  to  the  full  consciousness  that  he 
was  deeply  and  truly  in  love  with  the  gentle 
Edith.  Six  months  of  delightful  intercourse 
had  shown  him  the  depth  and  richness  of  her 
pure  and  gentle  soul,  and  he  felt  that  it  was 
not  without  its  chastening  influence  upon  him 
self.  The  rough  and  passion  fostering  society 
of  his  former  companions  had  now  suddenly 
lost  its  charm,  a  desire  for  the  wild  stimulus 
of  dissipation  was  usurped  by  a  fascination 
almost  too  potent,  attracting  him  to  the  society 
of  purity  and  beauty.  If  in  a  thoughtless 
moment  a  hasty  word  escaped  him  of  passion, 
or  a  half  formed  oath  rose  to  his  lips  among 
his  friends  at  the  club,  he  thought  of  Edith, 
and  the  expletive  died  upon  his  tongue. 

In  short  Lord  Amidown  was  most  irrevoca 
bly  in  love. 

"  Amidown,  we  are  going  to  Ascot  to-mor 
row,  and  shall  have  a  fine  time.  You  will  go 
with  us  of  course,  wont  you  ?"  asked  a  young 
friend  who  met  him  in  his  usual  daily  call  at 
the  club. 

"  I  can't  go,  as  I  have  an  engagement,"  said 
his  lordship. 

"  Engageme?it,"  said  the  other,  emphasizing 
the  word,  and  looking  very  knowing  at  his 
friend  as  he  did  so. 

"  Is  there  anything  very  remarkable  in  the 


fact  that  a  gentleman  happens  to  have  an  en 
gagement?"  asked  Lord  Amidown. 
"  O  no,"  said  his  friend,  laughing. 
"  Well,  then,  why  do  you  seem  to  wonder  at 
my  engagements  ?"  he  asked. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  wondered  at,  your 
lordship ;  on  the  contrary,  I  should  suppose  an 
engagement  would  be  the  natural  result  of 
your  present  mode  of  passing  time." 

"  You  are  a  mad  wag,  George,"  said  his 
lordship,  good  naturedly,  and  trying  to  laugh 
off  the  affair. 

"  Sorry  for  you,  Amidown,  very  sorry  in 
deed,"  continued  his  friend,  with  mock  seri 
ousness. 

"  Fudge,  George.  Who  goes  down  with 
your  party  to-morrow  to  the  race  ?" 

"  Baulking  your  leap,  old  fellow,  eh — don't 
like  the  look  of  the  ground,"  said  the  other. 

"  Can't  you  leave  off  raillery  for  one  single 
moment,  George  ?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,  but — " 
"  Don't  have  any  buts  about  it." 
"  Now  seriously,  Amidown,"  said  his  friend, 
"  are    you   going  to  throw  yourself  away  at 
your  time  of  life  ?     Why,  my  dear  fellow,  you 
haven't  sowed  your  wild  oats  yet ;  just  think  of 
your  age,  and  what  a  chance  lies  before  you." 
"  Nonsense,  nonsense.     Choose  some  other 
theme  for  your  fun,  George,"  said  Lord  Ami- 
down,  a  little  annoyed. 

"  It  may  be  fun  to  you  now,  but  look  out 
for  breakers  ahead,  Amidown;  believe  me,  no 
man  should  attempt  to  join  wits  with  a  woman 
until  he  has  had  at  least  thirty  good  years  ex 
perience  of  this  world,  in  general,  and  of  wo 
men  in  particular.  Why,  man,  you  are  scarce 
ly  twenty -two,  what  have  you  to  do  with  mar 
riage  ?:J 

"  Did  I  say  that  I  was  about  to  marry  ?" 
asked  his  lordship,  almost  in  despair  at  his 
friend's  earnestness. 

"  No,  but  all  the  club  say  so,  and  every 
body  believes  it  to  be  true, 

'  But  where  a  lady's  in  the  case, 
You  see  all  other  things  give  place,' 

continued  his    merry    companion,    laughing 
heartily. 

"  Here,  George,"  said  his  lordship,  handing 
him  a  couple  of  guineas,  "  be  so  good  as  to 
get  me  a  ticket  in  your  party  to  Ascot,  and  if 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


185 


I  don't  come  in  time,  fill  my  place  with  a  good 
fellow,  and  give  him  my  ticket." 

"  That's  equivalent  to  saying  you  wont  go," 
said  his  friend. 

;'  No,  George,  I  didn't  say  that." 

"  Ah  !  I  see  how  it  is,  Amidown — you  are 
shot  right  through  the  heart." 

Lord  Amidown  felt  no  inclination  for  amuse 
ment,  but  on  the  contrary  was  not  a  little  puz 
zled  and  uncomfortable  as  it  regarded  matters 
at  Sir  Robert  Brompton's  house.  In  review 
ing  his  own  position  as  connected  with  the 
family,  his  lordship  found  matters  in  a  com 
plicated  shape.  Walter  Manning  seemed  by 
common  acceptation  to  be  really  engaged  to 
Edith,  and  yet  to  his  lordship's  discrimi 
nating  eye,  he  seemed  to  be  far  more  de 
voted  at  heart  and  engaged  by  Clara's  bril 
liant  and  captivating  fascinations.  He  could 
not  fail  to  discover  that  Sir  Robert  favored  the 
idea  of  a  future  union  between  Walter  and 
Edith,  and  that  if  his  own  visits  were  not  so 
understood  in  reality,  yet  it  was  evidently  the 
fact  that  Sir  Robert  wished  to  understand 
them  as  relating  to  Clara.  The  fact  is,  like 
children,  we  are  apt  to  believe  what  we  hope, 
and  so  Sir  Robert  was  deceived. 

With  Edith  herself,  Lord  Amidown  thought 
he  was  better  understood,  though  he  had  nev 
er  uttered  the  first  syllable  that  he  might  not 
have  said  with  the  utmost  propriety  to  any 
other  lady,  yet  he  believed  that  in  the  inter 
change  of  feelings  and  sentiment  which  they 
so  often  enjoyed  together,  and  by  the  wonder 
fully  silent,  yet  eloquent  language  of  the  eyes, 
he  must  have  often  betrayed  to  her  the 
feelings  that  prompted  every  sentiment  of 
his  heart.  He  consoled  himself,  we  say, 
with  this  idea ;  but  then  even  this  was  all 
conjecture,  for  Edith  was  so  kind  and  gentle 
to  all,  so  unaffected  and  frank  in  her  manner, 
so  delicately  earnest  as  well  with  Sir  Robert, 
Walter,  or  himself,  that  he  could  not  interpret 
from  her  actions  even  one  single  ray  of  hope, 
that  might  lead  him  to  the  conviction  that  she 
he  loved  so  dearly,  favored  him  above  any 
other. 

There  was  an  unhappy  shade  sometimes 
visible  on  Edith's  face,  a  soft  tinge  of  sadness, 
that  seemed  to  say  that  all  was  not  right  with 
in  her  gentle  bosom,  that  there  was  some 
secret  cause  for  unhappiness  within  her  heart, 
and  it  was  this  gentle,  half-discovered  melan- 


choly  that  threw,  in  no  small  degree,  such  a 
lovely  mystery  about  her,  while  it  formed  no 
trifling  contrast  to  Clara's  apparently  uncloud 
ed  and  happy  spirits.  And  yet  the  keen  ob 
server  might  have  read  sorrow  too,  at  times, 
but  scantily  hidden  beneath  the  laughing  ex 
terior  and  merry  eye  of  Clara  herself.  But 
let  time  develop  the  story  of  her  heart. , 

"  Edith,  who  gave  you  that  beautiful  bou 
quet?"  asked  Clara,  one  night  as  the  two  girls 
had  thrown  themselves  listlessly  upon  the  soft 
couches  of  their  chamber,  before  retiring  to 
sleep. 

"  Lord  Amidown,"  answered  Edith,  frank 
ly.  "  It  is  a  beautiful  bouquet — these  flowers 
are  so  rare." 

"  A  man  of  taste  is  that  Lord  Amidown," 
said  Clara,  "  but  not  exactly  after  my  taste, 
however." 

"  Why  so  ?  Pray  what  is  the  matter  with 
Lord  Amidown  ?" 

"  O,  he's  too  sombre  by  half,  and  should 
take  orders  in  the  church." 

"  Sombre  ?" 

"  Yes,  melancholy  and  thoughtful ;  half 
the  time  dreaming." 

"  Why  I  think  him  very  agreeable,  Clara. 
He  surely  is  not  over  melancholy,  as  far  as  I 
can  see." 

"  Then  you  do  not  see  with  my  eyes,  that 
is  all,  Edith." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  she  answered,  thoughtfully. 

"  Now  what  think  you,  Edith,"  continued 
her  companion,  "  of  Walter  as  compared  with 
his  lordship,  position  aside,  for  we  both  know 
very  well  that  the  one  is  a  lord  and  the  other 
a  simple  commoner  ?'' 

"  What  a  queer  question  to  ask,  Clara.  I 
could  not  draw  a  comparison  between  them. 
I  have  known  Walter  so  much  longer,  that  I 
might  be  prejudiced  in  his  favor  on  that  ac 
count." 

"  Now,  Edith,"  said  Clara,  half  rising  and 
speaking  earnestly,  "  I  wouldn't  give  one  of 
Walter  Manning's  good  hearty  laughs  for  a 
dozen  of  Lord  Amidown's  soft  sighs  and  pol 
ished  speeches." 

"Walter  is  very  cheerful  and  convivial," 
said  Edith,  pleasantly ;  "  but  I  think  Lord 
Amidown  is  also  very  agreeable.  Perhaps 
he  is  less  earnest  and  boisterous  than  Wal 
ter." 

"  Ah,    Edith,  Edith,"  said  Clara,  shaking 


186 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


her  finger  playfully  at  her  companion,  "  you 
see  with  queer  eyes,  but  I  suppose  you  cannot 
help  it ;  his  lordship  has  been  bribing  you  with 
soft  speeches,  I  fear." 

"  Soft  speeches  ?" 

"  Ay,  and  tender  glances." 

"  O,  no,  Clara,"  said  her  companion,  hon 
estly,  "  Lord  Amidown  has  never  said  that  to 
me  which  he  might  not  have  said  before  Wal 
ter,  yourself,  or  any  one.  No,  Clara,  you  are 
wrong." 

"  Walter  tells  me  that  they  write  all  their 
love  letters  in  the  East  by  means  of  flowers," 
said  Clara.  "  Let  me  see  your  bouquet ;  now 
here  are  buds  in  any  quantity,  what  does  that 
mean?  here  are  violets  and  a  backing  of 
heather  grass." 

"  It  is  so  fragrant,  too,"  said  Edith,  handing 
it  to  Clara's  extended  hand. 

And  as  Clara  went  on  cheerfully  and  thought 
lessly  analyzing  the  flowers,  she  gradually  tore 
the  bouquet  to  pieces,  leaving  not  two  stems 
together.  Though  Edith  observed  this  with 
regret,  yet  she  said  not  a  word  to  her  com 
panion,  who  she  knew  would  not  intentionally 
displease  her. 

As  time  passed  on,  and  the  two  lovely  girls 
approached  more  nearly  the  confines  of  wo 
manhood,  new  and  attractive  friends  were 
formed,  from  among  the  best  society,  and 
they  began  to  move  in  a  more  extended 
circle — imparting  constantly  to  their  man 
ner,  polish  and  improvement.  Sir  Robert 
seemed  well  pleased  at  all  this,  and  his  means 
and  time  were  freely  expended  to  render  his 
house  the  gay  and  cheerful  resort  that  he 
wished,  for  Edith's  sake  more  particularly,  to 
make  it.  His  house  was  therefore  the  very 
home  of  hospitality. 

Sir  Robert  Brompton  felt  no  slight  regard 
and  even  love  for  Clara ;  this  every  one  saw 
who  noted  their  daily  intercourse,  but  the  good 
Mrs.  Marlow,  who  was  a  keen  observer,  and 
who  also  understood  the  human  heart  far  bet 
ter  than  even  her  master,  said  that  Sir  Robert 
loved  Clara  principally  because  she  looked  so 
much  like  Edith,  and  because  Edith  herself 
loved  her  so  dearly.  But  still  the  housekeep 
er,  in  the  goodness  and  largeness  of  her  kind 
heart,  found  out  a  hundred  reasons  herself  for 
loving  Clara,  and  declared  unhesitatingly  that 
next  to  Edith,  she  was  the  sweetest  young 
lady  in  all  of  London,  and  truth  to  say,  Mrs. 


Marlow  was  very  nearly  right  in  this  supposi 
tion,  as  she  was  in  most  everything  else. 

Both  Edith  and  Clara  appealed  to  her  as  to 
the  propriety  of  every  action,  and  respected 
her  advice  as  much  as  though  it  had  been  sup 
ported  by  the  most  profound  and  unquestioned 
authority. 

It  was  a  matter  of  no  small  importance  to 
these  young  and  inexperienced  girls,  situated 
under  such  peculiar  circumstances  as  those  in 
which  they  found  themselves,  that  they 
met  with  so  good  a  friend  in  Mrs.  Marlow,  who 
was  one  of  those  strong-minded,  yet  most 
devoted  and  affectionate  souls  that  one  often 
finds  among  her  class  of  the  community. 
Single-minded,  quiet,  attentive,  and  ever  de 
sirous  to  please  ;  yet  she  was  no  cringer,  and 
if  Sir  Robert  in  his  simplicity  proposed 
aught  for  the  young  ladies  that  Mrs.  Marlow, 
in  her  better  experience  of  the  sex,  considered 
improper,  or  not  exactly  lady-like,  she  told 
Sir  Robert  so  at  once,  and  he  in  fact  respected 
her  the  more  for  it,  and  as  to  the  girls  them 
selves,  she  seemed  to  them  little  less  than  a 
kind  mother.  It  would  have  been  a  very 
difficult  matter  for  them  to  appear  so  well, 
had  this  been  otherwise  ;  it  was  all-important 
to  them  in  their  new  sphere  of  action.  Edith 
told  Mrs.  Marlow  that  she  could  love  her  no 
better  were  she  indeed  her  mother,  while 
Clara  felt  as  much,  though  she  said  it  not; 
indeed  it  was  not  her  way  to  give  open  ex 
pression  to  her  feelings ;  she  seemed  to  be 
equally  animated  by  them  with  Edith,  but 
they  rarely  found  utterance  from  her  lips. 

Some  months  subsequent  to  the  evening 
scene  which  we  have  described  as  occurring 
between  Edith  and  Clara,  Lord  Amidown 
fancied  that  he  discovered  in  Edith  a  disposi 
tion  to  avoid  him  when  she  could  do  so  with 
out  its  being  manifestly  her  purpose.  He 
fancied  that  his  advances  were  received  less 
cordially,  and  indeed  that  he  was,  as  far  as  she 
was  concerned,  a  less  welcome  visiter  than  he 
had  deemed  himself  heretofore.  Sorely  an 
noyed  at  this  state  of  affairs,  his  lordship  was 
much  puzzled  to  discover  any  cause  for  it. 
He  reviewed  his  every  word,  and  strove  to 
recall  at  what  precise  time  this  evidence 
of  her  feelings  first  showed  itself. 

Naturally  of  a  diffident  temperament,  Lord 
Amidown  longed  in  secret  to  speak  to  Edith 
upon  this  subject,  but  did  not  find  himself 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


187 


possessed  of  the  requisite  courage.  This 
was  a  strong  and  truthful  evidence  of  the 
sincerity  of  his  love.  He  would  have  thought 
nothing  of  appearing  before  the  queen  at 
court,  and  of  receiving  with  easy  self-possession 
the  respect  that  was  his  due — but  before  this 
simple  and  lovely  girl,  his  manhood  quailed ; 
he  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  her  upon  the 
theme  nearest  to  his  heart.  He  had  hedged 
her  about  in  his  love  so  like  a  sacred  divinity, 
that  he  dared  not  himself  overstep  the  barriers 
constructed  by  his  own  love. 

With  his  true  and  constant  heart  thus 
racked  with  fear  and  the  misery  of  suspense, 
he  resolved  to  write  to  Edith  that  which  he 
felt  he  lacked  the  courage  to  say  to  her  in  per 
son,  and  in  accordance  with  this  resolve,  one 
evening  as  he  left  her,  he  bade  her  good  night 
with  more  than  usual  tenderness,  and  as  they 
parted,  laid  a  note  to  her  address  in  her 
hand. 

Edith  blushed,  and  said  nothing,  but  the 
moment  that  he  was  fairly  gone,  she  sought 
her  chamber  at  once,  and  throwing  herself 
carelessly  upon  a  couch,  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  and  wept.  0,  how  bitterly,  how 
sadly  she  wept  there  alone.  She  did  not 
open  the  note  immediately,  but  wept  thus  for 
minutes ;  then  drying  her  eyes,  she  said  to 
herself : 

"  What  need  is  there  that  I  should  read 
this  note  ?  How  well  I  know  its  purport  al 
ready.  Could  two  hearts  like  ours  mingle  so 
long  together  and  not  fully  understand  each 
other  ?  It  is  impossible  ;  and  yet  to  realize  the 
barrier  that  separates  us,  a  barrier  so  fearful 
that  I  shudder  when  I  remember  how  far  it 
removes  me  from  him  !  True,  I  am  dear 
Sir  Robert's  adopted  child,  true,  he  has  said 
that  a  queenly  dower  shall  go  with  my  hand, 
but  O,  what  of  that  ?  am  I  not  lowly,  maybe 
ignobly  born,  and  when  his  lordship  knows 
this,  will  he  still  love  me  ?  I  feel,  alas !  I 
know  it  cannot  be.  His  birth  is  so  immeasur 
ably  above  mine,  that  I  tremble  to  know  the 
distance  between  us.  How  have  I  been  so 
blind  as  to  thus  live  on  in  intimacy  with  him, 
knowing  all  this,  while  he  knows  nothing  of  it. 
It  is  a  fearful  thought,  my  very  life  has  been 
a  lie  this  many  a  day.  I  have  sat  and  smiled 
upon  him,  have  enjoyed  his  fascinating  society, 
have  responded  to  his  sentiments,  day  after 
day,  and  all  this  time,  too  delicate  and  con- 


siderate  to  be  inquisitive,  he  has  believed  me 
the  daughter  of  humble  but  respectable  pa 
rents,  the  orphan  child  of  Sir  Robert's  friend. 
Alas,  alas,  would  that  we  had  never  met.  I 
thought  I  was  happy  when  Sir  Robert  receiv 
ed  me,  and  with  his  dear  love  and  that  of  good 
Mrs.  Marlow,  my  world  of  joy  seemed  to  be 
complete ;  but  now,  O,  how  my  very  heart 
aches. !" 

She  paused,  and  with  her  eyes  upon  the 
floor  and  her  bosom  heaving  quickly,  present 
ed  the  very  picture  of  grief  and  despair.  At 
last,  as  if  remembering  herself,  she  "broke 
the  neck  of  the  wax,"  and  read  the  contents 
of  the  note  as  follows : 

"  DEAR  LADY  : 

"  These  few  days  past  I  have  observed 
a  seeming  desire  on  your  part  to  avoid  my 
society,  and  while  I  take  the  liberty  to  express 
the  hope  that  I  have  not  incurred  your  dis 
pleasure  by  any  remark  or  course  of  action, 
permit  me  also  to  refer  to  a  subject  very  near 
and  dear  to  my  heart,  and  one  which  has  en 
gaged  all  my  hopes  and  thoughts  for  many  a 
day,  Since  our  first  meeting,  I  have  felt  that 
I  loved  you  most  dearly,  but  if  this  was  the 
sentiment  that  actuated  me  so  early  m  our 
acquaintance,  how  much  deeper  must  that  af 
fection  have  taken  root  after  more  than  a 
year  of  happy  intercourse,  in  which  the  entire 
wealth  of  your  mind  and  soul  have  been  laid 
open  to  my  admiration  nearly  every  day,  so 
intimate  have  we  been. 

"  I  have  never  told  you  in  words,  Edith, 
that  I  loved  you,  but,  ah,  have  you  not  read 
it  a  hundred  times  in  my  eyes,  my  voice,  my 
every  action  ?  These  indications  have  been 
spontaneous  and  beyond  my  control,  the 
promptings  of  a  heart  that  is  solely  and  con 
stantly  yours.  And  now  am  I  loved  in  re 
turn  ?  Ah !  Edith,  on  the  answer  of  this  lit 
tle  query,  I  feel  that  all  my  future  happiness 
in  life  depends.  I  write  this  in  all  calmness — 
do  not  think  me  rash  or  impetuous.  I  am 
neither.  I  know  that  your  tender  age  would 
debar  a  union  at  present,  nor  should  I  have 
even  hinted  at  such  a  subject,  but  for  the  cir 
cumstance  referred  to  in  the  first  part  of  this 
note.  Your  age,  dearest,  need  be  no  bar  to 
the  union  of  our  hearts,  we  may  be  pledged 
to  each  other,  Edith,  and  only  be  the  happier. 
Your  choice  would  be  mine  as  to  time. 


188 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"But  alas !  my  pen  has  quite  run  away 
with  me,  and  I  write  as  though  I  were  sure 
of  success  in  my  suit,  but  I  know  you  will 
receive  these  few  lines  as  they  are  intended, 
dearest.  If  they  seem  to  be  abrupt,  think 
how  very  unhappy  I  am  at  your  coolness 
towards  me  of  late,  and  send  me  one  line  to 
say  I  am  forgiven,  if  no  more. 
"  Devotedly  yours, 

"  AMIDOWN." 

Edith's  eyes  were  clear  and  bright  as  she 
raised  them  from  the  paper,  after  reading  this. 
She  had  thoroughly  relieved  her  aching  heart 
before  she  opened  the  note,  by  a  flood  of  tears, 
a«d  now  she  considered  its  import  with  calm 
ness  and  cool  judgment,  though  her  heart  beat 
more  rapidly,  and  a  heightened  color  nestled 
in  her  soft  cheek.  She  mused  thoughtfully 
for  some  moments.  At  first  she  thought  it 
would  be  proper  for  her  to  show  this  note  to 
her  adopted  parent,  Sir  Robert,  but  here  was 
a  struggle,  for  delicacy  forbade  her  to  do  so. 
Yet  she  knew  not  how  to  act  in  this  singular 
situation.  She  felt  that  Mrs.  Marlow  was 
not  a  proper  person  for  her  to  go  to  in  such  a 
dilemma,  and  also  that  Clara's  kind  heart 
would  fail  to  be  of  any  service  to  her  here. 
She  even  thought  of  going  to  Walter,  and 
seriously,  too,  as  she  would  have  gone  to  a 
brother,  but  a  certain  feeling  kept  her  in  check 
on  this  point. 

In  this  dilemma  she  sat  and  picked  the 
mottoed  seal  of  the  note  to  pieces,  until  at 
last  the  poor  girl,  with  an  aching  heart,  re 
solved  to  follow  the  dictates  of  her  own  judg 
ment  in  this  dilemma.  She  trusted  to  the 
first  promptings  of  her  feelings,  and  sitting 
down  to  her  writing  desk,  indited  the  follow 
ing  reply  to  Lord  Amidown's  epistle  : 

"My  LORD: 

"  I  have  just  read  your  esteemed  favor. 
To  pretend  that  I  do  not  fully  understand  it, 
would  be  to  deceive  you.  While  it  has  given 
me  pleasure  to  know  that  I  share  your  lord 
ship's  warm  friendship,  it  has  also  pained  me 
to  realize  that  you  have  referred  to  any  more 
tender  relationship  between  us.  It  is  a  sub 
ject  upon  which  to  multiply  words,  would  be 
to  harrow  up  feelings  on  my  part,  that  I  must 
strive  to  suppress.  Permit  me  to  assure  you 
that  it  will  be  my  pride  ever  to  consider  you 


as  a  very  dear  friend,  but  I  pray  you,  my 
lord,  do  not  misunderstand  me  when  I  add 
that  a  nearer  relationship  can  never  exist  be 
tween  us.  So  far  from  your  lordship's  having 
ever  offended  or  annoyed  me  at  any  time, 
which  you  seem  to  imagine,  I  can  only  say 
that  the  happiest  moments  of  my  life  have 
been  passed  in  your  society,  nor  have  you 
ever  by  word  or  deed,  dispelled  the  high  es 
teem  and  respect  that  we  have  all  entertained 
for  you. 

"It  were  better,  my  lord,  that  this  note 
should  seal  up  the  subject  forever. 

"  Respectfully  and  truly  your  friend, 

"  EDITH." 

When  she  had  done  this,  she  re-read  her 
note,  then  folded  and  sealed  it,  after  which  she 
sunk  back  into  her  seat  upon  the  couch,  and 
sighed  heavily,  as  though  she  had]  signed  her 
own  death  warrant.  It  was  a  decided,  but 
most  generous  and  self-sacrificing  resolve  that 
had  dictated  this  answer  which  the  fair  young 
girl  had  written,  for  under  the  profuse  and 
splendid  patronage  of  Sir  Robert,  she  might, 
had  she  felt  thus  disposed,  have  obliterated  all 
record  of  the  past  as  it  related  to  her  humble, 
and  indeed  degrading  associations  of  the 
past.  How  easy  it  would  have  been  to  invent 
a  story  in  accordance  with  that  already  believ 
ed  by  his  lordship,  touching  the  matter  of  he 
humble  but  respectable  parentage  and  adop 
tion  by  Sir  Robert.  But  the  pure  and  gentle 
heart  of  Edith  was  not  capable  of  deceit ;  she 
would  not  have  entertained  such  an  idea  even 
for  a  single  moment. 

How  dearly  and  tenderly  she  had  learned 
to  regard  Lord  Amidown,  with  a  love  so  deep 
that  it  had  already  become  a  part  of  her  very 
existence.  To  her  he  seemed  all  that  was  no 
ble  and  good,  and  though  Lord  Amidown  was 
entirely  hers  as  it  regarded  his  heart,  yet  it 
may  be  doubted  if  he  loved  her  as  well  as 
she  loved  him.  As  to  the  matter  of  his  sin 
cerity  and  truthfulness  of  purpose,  however, 
and  his  strict  notions  of  honor,  he  was  indeed 
worthy  of  Edith.  That  which  he  had  writ 
ten  in  his  note  to  her  was  as  true  as  her  own 
fond  regard  for  him,  a  love  that  deserved  the 
richest  return  and  interest  that  -her  heart 
might  give.  All  this  she  realized,  and  thought 
upon  with  even  redoubled  force  at  this  mo 
ment. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


189 


Edith  at  last  aroused  herself  from  the  sad 
thoughts  that  oppressed  her,  and  prepared 
herself  for  rest,  and  kneeling  by  her  bedside, 
with  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  breast  arid 
her  eyes  uplifted  to  the  throne  of  him  who  is 
the  Father  of  the  orphan,  her  lips  moved  in 
prayer  for  him  she  loved.  Her  long  hair 
hung  fondly  about  her  heaving  breast  and 
dimpled  shoulders,  and  a  diamond  drop  fresh 
from  the  soul,  trembled  in  her  eye  ! 

As  she  knelt  there,  the  door  was  gently 
opened,  but  in  her  earnestness  she  heeded  it 
not,  and  as  she  went  on  with  her  prayer, 
Clara  drew  behind  one  of  the  curtains,  and 
remained  in  silence  until  Edith  arose  from 
her  kneeling  posture.  Clara  gazed  at  her 
during  the  few  moments  that  transpired  with 
an  expressive  face,  warmly  sympathizing 
with  her,  and  even  weeping  silently  by  her 
self  as  she  seemed  to  understand  Edith's  po 
sition  in  relation  to  Lord  Amidown.  She 
loved  her,  too,  most  sincerely,  and  it  gave  her 
no  slight  pain  to  see  her  unhappy  in  any  mat 
ter,  but  probably  there  were  reasons  why  she 
sympathized  more  particularly  with  her  at 
this  moment,  as  the  story  will  explain. 

Who  would  not  have  loved  her  to  see  her 
thus  pleading  for  him  she  loved,  presenting  a 
figure  so  pure  and  beautiful,  that  she  looked 
more  like  an  ethereal  being,  dropped  from 
above,  than  like  a  mortal. 


"  How  beautiful  is  sorrow  when  'tis  drest 
By  virgin  innocence !     It  makes 
Felicity  in  others  seem  deformed." 

Poor  Edith,  how  inexperienced  thou  art, 
and  this  is  thy  first  lesson  in  the  varied  wiles 
of  the  heart. 

When  Edith  had  ended  her  prayer,  Clara 
pretended  to  have  just  come  in,  that  she  might 
not  embarrass  her,  and  kissing  her  tenderly, 
she  said : 

"  Are  you  not  well  to-night,  Edith  ?  can  I 
do  anything  for  you  ?" 

"  O,  no,  thank  you,  Clara  dear.  I  am  not 
ill." 

"  Do  you  not  remember  the  lesson  you 
read  me  but  a  little  while  since  about  being 
unhappy,  and  now  I  find  you  in  tears  ?" 

"They  are  foolish,  Clara,  I  confess,  but 
they  will  sometimes  flow." 

"I  will  not  ask  the  cause,  Edith,"  said 
Clara,  "  but  when  it  is  in  my  power  to  console 
you,  as  you  love  me,  let  me  do  it." 

"  I  will,  I  will,  Clara.  You  are  always  so 
good,  so  kind  and  thoughtful  with  me,  that  I 
owe  you  much  thankfulness,"  said  Edith, 
throwing  her  arms  about  her  neck. 

Thus  the  two  evinced  the  honest  feelings 
that  prompted  them  in  relation  to  each  other, 
and  now  as  the  reader  has  seen  Edith's  most 
secret  thoughts,  we  have  another  heart  to  un 
mask. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 


A  HEART  UNMASKED. 

Come,  the  plot  thickens,  and  another  fold 

Of  the  warm  cloak  of  mystery  wraps  us  round. 


And  for  their  loves, 
Behold,  the  seal  is  on  them ! 


BANNER  OF  TYBURN. 


OF  COURSE  Walter  Manning  was  not  an  un 
observant  witness,  day  by  day  and  week  by 
week,  of  the  intimacy  of  Lord  Amidown  and 
Edith.  Indeed  it  was  noticed  by  all  in  the 
house.  There  was  a  time  when  such  a  state 
of  things  would  have  caused  him  the  most  un 
mitigated  distress  and  misery,  but  somehow, 
all  unconsciously  to  him,  Clara  had  gradually 
usurped  in  his  heart  the  place  that  Edith  had 
filled  there.  Not  that  Walter  was  blind  to  her 
remarkable  attractions  and  sweet  loveliness  of 
person  and  disposition;  indeed  he  was  the  first 
to  pay  truthful  homage  to  them,  and  even  now 
fully  realized  and  spoke  of  her  attractions  to 
Clara  with  an  earnestness  that  gave  token  of 
his  sincerity.  It  was  not  that  he  lacked  the 
power  of  appreciation,  that  "  a  change  had 
come  o'er  the  spirit  of  his  dream,"  but  the 
truth  was,  Clara's  liveliness  and  vivacity  were 
more  in  accordance  with  his  feelings,  and  then, 
too,  she  was  nearly  as  handsome,  at  least  in 
his  eyes,  as  Edith  herself.  In  fact  their  .re 
semblance  to  each  other  was  so  remarkable  as 
to  be  the  cause  of  frequent  allusion  by  those 
who  were  strangers  to  them,  and  save  those 
differences  of  disposition  which  we  have  no 
ted,  they  also  much  resembled  each  other  in 
tastes  and  general  characteristics. 

Clara  and  Walter  were  sitting  together  on 
the  day  subsequent  to  the  date  of  the  letters 


which  we  have  given  in  the  last  chapter. 
They  were  en  famille  in  a  retired  part  of  the 
reception  room,  when  Walter  asked  : 

"  What  is  it  that  has  troubled  Edith  to-day  ? 
She  has  seemed  melancholy  and  dejected  all 
day,  I  think." 

"  Perhaps  she  is  not  well,"  replied  Clara, 
carelessly  turning  the  leaves  of  a  book  that 
she  held. 

"  If  she  is  ill,  Clara,"  said  Walter,  "  it  is 
mentally.  I  am  confident  of  that — it  is  the 
mind,  not  the  body." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?"  said  Clara,  with 
an  earnestness  that  Walter  could  not  but  ob 
serve. 

"  I  do,  most  assuredly." 

"  Well,  there  can  be  no  harm  surely  in  my 
being  frank  with  you,  Walter,"  she  continued, 
speaking  low  that  Sir  Eobert,  who  was  read 
ing  the  Gazette  in  an  opposite  corner,  might 
not  hear.  "  I  know  that  something  does 
trouble  her  mind." 

"  Indeed,  and  do  you  know  the  cause  of 
this,  Clara,  or  does  she  make  it  a  secret  even 
between  you  ?" 

"  In  all  her  affairs  save  this  one,  she  has  al 
ways  spoken  freely  to  me  and  confided  in  me," 
she  replied. 

"  This,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Speak  low,  Walter.     I  mean  her  intimacy 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


191 


with  Lord  Amtdown,  and  her  feelings  towards 
him." 

"  What  possible  trouble  can  there  be  in  re 
lation  to  that  matter  ?  She  seems  ever  happy 
in  his  society,  and  it  is  very  evident  that  Ami- 
down  himself  regards  her  with  the  tenderest 
interest." 

"  All  that  is  very  true." 

"  Then  pray  what  trouble  or  misunderstand 
ing  can  there  be  between  them  to  cause  her  to 
feel  unhappy  ?" 

"  Can  you  see  no  possible  cause  for  trouble, 
Walter  ?"  asked  his  companion  in  a  tone  of 
voice  so  much  more  serious  than  it  was  her 
wont  to  speak  in,  that  he  seemed  surprised  as 
he  answered : 

"  None." 

"  Then  you  do  not  see  with  my  eyes,  and 
my  experience,"  said  the  fair  girl,  sighing 
heavily  as  she  spoke. 

"  How  did  you  discover  that  this  was  the 
ceuse  of  her  dejection  ?"  asked  Walter,  after  a 
moment's  pause. 

"  By  mere  chance,  last  night." 

"  And  how,  Clara  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Walter,  though  I  could  not 
do  so  to  any  one  else,  for  you  seem  to  me  as 
though  you  were  her  brother,  and  I  know  you 
feel  like  one  towards  her." 

"I  do  indeed,"  replied  Walter,  earnestly. 
L  "  Last  night,"  continued  Clara,  "  as  I  went 
to  my  room  to  retire,  I  opened  the  door  gently 
lest  1  should  awake  her  from  sleep,  for  she  had 
retired  some  time  before  me.  I  discovered  her 
upon  her  knees,  engaged  in  a  pure  and  earnest 
prayer  for  him  whom  you  know  to  be  so  de 
votedly  attached  to  her.  I  hesitated  at  first 
as  to  what  I  should  do.  I  had  gently  closed 
the  door  after  me,  and  I  feared  if  I  should  open 
it  again  that  I  should  disturb  her  and  interrupt 
her  prayer.  I  this  dilemma,  I  shrank  back  be 
hind  the  hangings  of  my  bedstead,  where  I 
waited  the  closing  of  her  prayer,  when  I  pre 
tended  to  have  just  come  in  at  the  door,  which 
I  opened  and  closed  again.  But  I  heard 
enough  while  I  was  there  to  show  me  that  his 
lordship  had  proposed  to  Edith,  and  also  that 
the  note  which  lay  upon  her  desk  addressed  to 
him,  contained  her  refusal  of  his  hand." 

«  Refusal !" 

"  Yes." 

"  Edith  refuse  Lord  Amidown  ?" 

"  Yes,  the  letter  which  I  saw  lying  upon  the 


desk,  unquestionably  contained  her  refusal  of 
his  hand  in  marriage." 

"  Can  it  be  so  ?"  mused  Walter,  scarcely  ut 
tering  the  words  aloud,  while  a  slight  thrill  ran 
through  his  veins,  as  he  thought  perhaps  the 
memory  of  their  own  intimacy,  which  had 
never  ceased  in  fact,  might  have  influenced 
her. 

"  What  are  you  musing  about,  Walter  ?' 
asked  his  companion. 

"  0,  nothing ;  that  is,  about  what  you  have 
told  me.  It  is  very  queer,  for  Lord  Amidown 
besides  being  one  of  the  very  best  matches  in 
London,  has  evidently  shared  her  best  regards, 
if  not  her  love,  these  many  days." 

"  All  very  true,  Walter,"  continued  Clara, 
"  and  though  I  can  easily  divine  the  feelings 
that  prompted  that  refusal,  it  is  not  for  me  to 
speak  Edith's  reasons,  and  time  alone  must 
divulge  them." 

"  This  is  very  odd,"  mused  Walter  thought 
fully;  "  think  you  Sir  Robert  knows  aught  of 
these  matters  ?" 

"  As  yet,  probably  nothing.  But  alas  !  for 
poor  Edith,  how  much  I  pity  her;  she  is  very, 
very  unhappy." 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments,  dur 
ing  which  Clara's  eyes  were  bent  upon  the 
floor  in  a  thoughtful  mood,  while  Walter  re 
garded  her  with  more  than  usual  tenderness 
and  interest. 

"  Let  us  set  her  an  example,  Clara,"  he  said 
at  last,  drawing  nearer  to  her  side,  and  taking 
her  hand  tenderly  within  his  own,  as  he  look 
ed  into  the  depths  of  her  blue  eyes. 

"  How,  Walter,  by  being  unhappy  too  ?"  she 
said  playfully,  smiling  at  him  as  she  struggled 
gently  to  keep  Walter's,  arm  from  encircling 
her  pretty  waist. 

"  Nay,  Clara,"  he  replied  earnestly,  "  not 
thus,  but  by  promising  to  love  and  cherish  each 
other  for  a  life  time.  That  would  be  an  ex 
ample  for  them  indeed." 

"  Walter !" 

"  Well,  Clara." 

"  Walter,  Walter,"  repeated  the  fair  young 
girl,  in  earnest  accents,  while  she  half  blushed 
at  his  familiarity,  "  have  I  not  begged  you 
never  to  talk  thus  to  me — nay,  did  you  not 
promise  me  that  you  would  not  refer  to  this 
subject  again  ?" 

Walter  made  no  reply  to  this  appeal,  but 
only  looked  more  earnestly  the  love  that  actu- 


192 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


ated  him,  as  he  gazed  into  those  soft,  clear 
eyes,  and  gently  strove  to  retain  the  hand  he 
held. 

"  Nay,  then,  I  shall  be  really  angry,  Walter 
Manning,"  continued  Clara,  with  sudden  en 
ergy  as  she  extricated  her  hand,  and  walked 
to  another  part  of  the  room,  with  an  assumed 
look  of  displeasure. 

Sir  Robert  had  risen  a  moment  before  and 
left  them  alone  together ;  therefore  there  was 
no  one  to  witness  this  little  scene  between 
them  that  had  seemingly  occurred  so  im 
promptu,  so  unexpectedly. 

Walter  Manning  sank  into  a  chair  without 
any  further  remark  after  Clara  left  him  thus, 
but  his  face  bespoke  such  a  load  of  disappoint 
ment,  such  poignant  and  bitter  regret,  that 
even  tears  could  not  have  lightened  the  sor 
rowing  picture.  He  remained  thus  for  per 
haps  a  minute  by  himself,  but  when  Clara 
turned  to  reseat  herself  at  the  opposite  side  of 
the  spacious  apartment  which  formed  the  re 
ception  room,  her  eyes  once  more  rested  upon 
Walter,  and  she  seemed  to  pause  for  a  mo 
ment  struck  by  the  picture  of  unhappiness  she 
had  created,  and  hastening  back  to  his  side, 
she  said : 

"  Walter,  Walter,  forgive  me  if  I  have  been 
too  hasty ;  but,  O,  could  you  truly  read  my 
heart,  and  see  the  load  that  often  presses  it, 
even  when  my  face  is  disguised  in  smiles,  and 
merry  words  come  from  my  lips ;  could  you 
know  the  agony  and  sorrow  that  only  my 
sleepless  pillow  witnesses  ;  0,  could  you  real 
ize  for  one  moment  these  things  as  keenly  as 
I  do,  Walter,  you  would  forgive  me,  you 
would  pity  me,  I  know  you  would." 

Walter  Manning  was  astounded.  He  had 
never  seen  Clara  shed  a  tear  before  ;  indeed 
her  face  seemed  to  him  only  capable  of  produc 
ing  smiles,  so  sunny  had  it  ever  been  in  his 
presence.  But  now,  as  she  stood  before  him 
thus,  a  tear-drop  wet  either  cheek,  and  her 
fair  young  breast  heaved  with  a  short  aching 
sob.  As  she  finished  what  she  had  said,  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  sinking 
into  a  chair,  wept  like  a  child ;  her  feelings 
were  beyond  control. 

It  was  true  that  Walter  had  more  than  once 
before  attempted  to  express  to  her  the  tender 
feelings  that  he  cherished  for  her,  on  the 
first  occasion  when  he  had  done  so,  she  repuls 
ed  him  so  playfully  that  he  was  quite  at  fault. 

.  7  vntt  be  published  Saturday  June  1. 


The  second  time  she  had  been  more  seri 
ous,  and  made  him  promise,  as  he  regarded 
her  peace  of  mind,  not  to  refer  to  this  theme 
again;  and  thus  the  matter  had  stood  for 
months,  until  the  scene  had  occurred  to  which 
we  have  just  referred.  But  now  there  was 
some  reason,  so  earnest,  that,  as  she  expressed 
to  him,  it  seemed  to  harrow  her  very  soul — a 
reason  so  potent  that  it  clothed  her  face  in 
such  a  guise  as  he  had  never  until  then  seen 
it  wear.  He  was  fairly  startled  at  this,  and 
felt  most  guilty  that  he  had  broken  his  prom 
ise,  and  while  he  mused  thus,  he  took  her 
hand  gently  within  his  own,  and  said,  ten 
derly  : 

"  Forgive  you,  Clara ;  ah  !  rather  forgive 
me,  who  by  breaking  my  promise,  have  cost 
you  so  much  sorrow  and  cast  a  cloud  over 
your  ever  sunny  sky.  Believe  me  when  I 
say,  that  in  future,  let  it  cost  me  ever  so  much 
grief  and  pain,  I  will  strive  to  be  silent  on  this 
subject,  though  it  be  so  nearly  allied  to  my 
happiness.  I  will  condemn  my  tongue  to  a 
Pythagorean  silence,  rather  than  it  shall  make 
you  unhappy  even  for  one  moment." 

"  Thank  you,  Walter,  many,  many  times," 
she  answered,  still  weeping. 

"  Though  I  cannot  understand  why  refer 
ence  to  an  honest  and  true  regard  can  distress 
you,  Clara,  still  I  drop  the   them^   from   this 
moment,  at  least  until  you  shall  ^  ourself  re-    j 
move  the  edict  of  silence." 

Clara  pressed  the  hand  tenderly  that  held 
her  own,  and  left  the  room  without  further 
remark.  Her  tears  having  once  found  vent, 
they  seemed  to  defy  control,  and  she  retired  to 
her  chamber  to  sorrow  by  herself. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  thought  Walter,  as  she  left 
him  thus,  "  that  this  young  and  apparently 
joyous  creatnre,  who  has  kept  the  house  in  a 
merry  mood  so  often,  was  all  the  while  ach 
ing  at  her  own  heart.  Could  she  be  so  happy 
in  appearance  and  so  sad  in  reality  ?  Can 
Clara  be  really  unhappy,  the  witty,  merry, 
beautiful  Clara  ?  I  did  not  wonder  to  see 
Edith,  who  is  so  delicate  and  Jjejasitive,  with 
melancholy  written  on  her  brow,  but  Clara, 
Clara  to  be  unhappy.  Why  it  seemed  to  me 
as  though  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to 
weep  at  all,  and  yet  how  sad,  how  very  sad 
she  was.  How  little  do  we  know  of  each  oth 
er,  after  all ;  how  hidden  a  thing  is  the  human 
heart !" 

The  work  will  be  completed  in  six  numbers  more. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV.— [CONTINUED.] 


Walter  paused  there  where  she  had  left  him 
for  some  time,  musing  to  himself,  and  walk 
ing  back  and  forth  in  the  elegant  apartment. 
At  last  he  paused,  and  said  half  aloud  in  his 
earnestness  : 

"  She  cannot  love  another — it  would  be  im 
possible  without  my  knowing  of  it.  Nay,  I 
feel  that  she  loves  me,  ay,  without  vanity,  1 
may  say  that  I  know  our  affection  is  mutual. 
What  then  can  there  be  so  necessarily  to  sep 
arate  us  ?  Maybe  it  is  the  same  reason  that 
has  acted  upon  Edith,  a  simple  cause  that 
will  yield  before  the  power  of  reason.  Prob 
ably  Edith's  delicacy  has  had  an  effect  upon 
Clara  also,  and  she  feels  that  if  her  adopted 
sister  may  not  with  propriety  receive  the  ad 
dresses  of  such  a  person  as  Lord  Amidown, 
neither  can  she  those  of  humble  Walter  Man 
ning.  It  is  odd,  very  odd.  If  I  thought  that 
she  disliked  me,  it  would  be  quite  another 
thing;  that  would  be  reason  enough,  but  here 
she  looks  uponyme  with  eyes  that  speak  to  my 
very  soul  in  their  sweet  and  kindly  expres 
sion,  and  bids  me  never  speak  of  these  things 
again. 

'  Alas  !  what  is  it,  in  this  world  of  ours, 
That  makes  it  fatal  to  be  loved?'  " 

"  Well,  well,"  he  continued,  "  there  is  only 
one  way,  though  hope  deferred  maketh  the 
heart  sick,  I  must  be  patient  and  bide  my  time 


— leaving  the  result,  -whatever  it  may  be,  to 
the  future." 

Walter  Manning  was  not  the  only  one  who 
had  mistaken  Clara's  true  disposition  and  char 
acter.  Those  who  generally  met  her  at  Sir 
Robert's,  though  delighted  by  her  merry  con 
versation  and  ever  engaging  manner,  added 
to  her  remarkable  personal  beauty,  had  not 
set  her  down  as  possessing  those  reliable  traits 
of  character  that  Edith  seemed  to  evince. 
And  yet  the  most  observant  of  them  were 
often  startled  by  the  depth  and  brilliancy  of 
her  native  wit,  which  at  times  gave  token  of 
much  thought  and  research,  but  none  of  all 
those  who  knew  her  best,  unless  perhaps  Edith 
herself,  would  have  supposed  that  beneath 
that  cheerful  and  mirthful  exterior  the  canker 
worm  of  sorrow  and  regret  was  gnawing  at 
her  heart,  day  and  night. 

"  Walter,"  said  Sir  Robert,  meeting  him  in 
the  parlor,  soon  after  Clara  had  left  him,  "  what 
ails  you  all  ?  Are  you  sick,  my  boy  ?  What 
has  gone  wrong  in  the  house  ?" 

"  O,  nothing,  that  I  am  aware  of,  Sir  Rob 
ert.  I  am  very  well,  and  was  only  musing  to 
myself  as  you  came  in." 

"  Only  musing  ?"  said  Sir  Robert,  looking  at 
Walter  half  suspiciously.  "  Well,  what  ails 
Clara?  I  just  met  her  on  the  stairs,  and  if 


196 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


I'm  not  blind,  she  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
crying." 

"  Crying,  Sir  Robert  ?" 

"  Crying,  Sir  Robert ;  yes,  crying,  Sir  Rob 
ert,"  repeated  his  patron,  "  yes,  crying,  Sir 
Robert.  I  want  to  know  what  has  possessed 
you  all.  Here's  Edith,  too,  coming  to  the 
dinner  table  with  swollen  eyes — " 

"  Edith,  sir  ?"  asked  Walter,  absen-tly,  inter 
rupting  his  patron. 

"  Edith,  sir  ?"  continued  Sir  Robert,  "  yes, 
sir,  Edith.  But  what  the  deuce  are  you  echo 
ing  me  for  in  this  way  ?  Zounds,  if  I 
don't  think  you  are  in  the  plot  too,  Walter." 

"  In  the  plot,  Sir  Robert  ?" 

"  There  you  are  again ;  yes,  I  say  in  the 
plot,  or  conspiracy,  or  whatever  it  is  that  is 
turning  all  your  heads." 

'" Ton  my  word,  Sir  Robert,  it  is  all  a  mys 
tery  to  me,  that  is  to  say,  I  don't  understand 
the  matter  at  all." 

"  No  skylarking,  Walter,  eh  ?" 

"  Fie,  Sir  Robert,  you  are  pleased  to  be 
facetious,"  replied  Walter. 

"  Well,  well,  I  don't  suppose  it  is  anything 
very  serious,  and  it  will  probably  soon  blow 
ever ;  but  at  any  rate,  Walter,  keep  a  sharp 
look  out  ahead  for  breakers,"  said  Sir  Robert, 
with  a  nautical  leer. 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  said  Walter,  laughing  heart 
ily,  and  following  up  his  patron's  lead. 

Sir  Robert  smiled,  arid  turned  away  from 
him  in  his  usual  good  humor. 

To  say  that  Walter  was  puzzled  in  the 
present  state  of  affairs,  would  hardly  be  a  suffi 
ciently  strong  term  to  express  the  fact — he 
was  completely  bewildered.  In  his  honest, 
frank  and  open  disposition,  he  could  conceive 
of  no  reason  why  Clara  should  thus  desire  him 
to  avoid  a  subject  so  eminently  dear  to  him, 
when  at  the  same  time  he  felt  fully  satisfied 
within  his  own  breast  that  she  regarded  him 
with  a  love  as  truthful  and  earnest  as  his  own. 
This  was  the  point  that  puzzled  him. 

He  could  "even  see  a  far  better  reason  for 
Edith's  conduct,  in  relation  to  the  offer  that 
she  had  so  lately  refused,  because  he  realized 
that  Lord  Amidown  must  doubtless  labor  un 
der  profound  ignorance  as  to  her  actual  origin, 
while  he  himself  knew  full  well  the  story  of 
both  Edith  and  Clara's  early  life.  He  could 
appreciate  the  truth  and  delicacy  in  Edith 
that  would  not  stoop  to  decf  it  in  the  matter, 


and  also  the  pride  that  would  not  permit  her 
to  speak  out  and  expose  her  unfortunate  story 
to  his  lordship.  But  then  Walter  reasoned 
that  such  an  actuating  motive  did  not  apply 
or  hold  good  in  any  way  as  to  Clara's  situation, 
for  both  knew  that  he  offered  her  his  hand 
and  heart  with  a  full  knowledge  of  the  story 
that  made  up  her  early  life. 

This  was  the  main  point  that  so  complete 
ly  nonplussed  Walter's  reasoning  ;  but  he  re 
solved  that  he  would  love  Clara  none  the  less. 
Indeed  he  need  not  have  determined  to  do 
this,  for  he  could  not  help  it ;  but  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  play  as  he  had  so  long  done,  the 
part  of  a  brother  to  both,  and  trust  to  time  for 
an  adjustment  of  these  matters  and  the  con 
summation  of  his  hopes. 

There  was  one  other  person  who  was  no 
less  a  keen  observer  of  all  that  was  passing 
between  the  two  girls  and  their  friends,  than 
was  Sir  Robert,  or  the  parties  themselves  ;  we 
refer  to  the  good  Mrs.  Marlow.  She  too  was 
puzzled  not  a  little,  and  had  it  related  to  any 
other  matter  than  that  of  the  heart,  it  is  alto 
gether  probable  that  ere  this  she  would  have 
spoken  to  the  young  ladies  about  it.  But  she 
said  to  herself,  "  time  will  explain  all,"  and  so 
she  went  on,  as  ardently  as  ever  serving  her 
young  mistresses  with  all  her  heart. 

As  to  Clara,  she  sought  her  room  and  wept 
long  and  bitterly,  as  we  have  seen  Edith  do 
before  her;  but  differently  did  her  grief  affect 
her,  seeming  to  bear  the  stamp  of  despair  it 
self — the  outpourings  of  a  broken  heart.  Her 
fine  dark  hair  hung  neglected  about  her  neck, 
and  with  her  hands  pressed  against  her  ach 
ing  temples,  she  walked  her  room  like  one  al 
most  deranged  by  the  thought  that  rankled  in 
her  heart.  Now  and  then  she  would  pause 
and  almost  struggle  for  breath,  as  though  her 
grief  would  choke  her,  and  then  she  would 
walk  again  with  a  nervous,  hurried  step,  that 
was  scarcely  less  expressive  of  her  mental 
agony  than  were  her  sobs. 

"  But  thou,  remorse  !  there  is  no  charm, 

Thy  sting,  avenger,  to  disarm  ! 

Vain  are  bright  suns  and  laughing  skies 

To  soothe  thy  victim's  agonies  ; 

The  heart,  once  made  thy  burning  throne, 

Still  while  it  beats,  is  thine  alone." 

Alas !  poor  Clara,  so  young,  so  beautiful, 
and  yet  so  unhappy.  Thy  heart  seems  so 
full  of  sadness,  that  it  can  hnrdly  sustain  itself. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 


THE    FORTUNE    TELLER. 


"  Men  said  she  saw  strange  visions,  which  none  besides  might  see  ; 

And  that  strange  sounds  were  in  her  ears,  which  none  might  hear  but  she." 


PERHAPS  no  stronger  proof  of  the  natural 
delicacy  of  both  Edith  and  Clara  could  have 
been  adduced,  than  the  fact  that  neither  of 
them  spoke  to  the  other  upon  the  subject  of 
their  feelings,  in  relation  to  Lord  Amidown  and 
Walter.  A  less  sensitive  heart  beating  in  the 
bosom  of  either,  would  have  induced  them  to 
discuss  the  subject  together,  but  as  it  was, 
they  both  held  it  sacred,  and  neither  alluded 
to  it,  though  both  fully  realized  the  other's 
position.  Edith  had  not  detected  Clara  in 
such  a  manner  as  she  herself  had  been  dis 
covered,  but  actions  speak  louder  than  words, 
and  Edith  was  observant.  Indeed,  long  before 
Walter  had  acknowledged  to  himself  that  he 
loved  Clara,  Edith  had  read  his  heart,  and 
had  said  so  within  herself,  and  afterwards, 
from  circumstances  that  it  is  unnecessary  to 
explain,  she  had  discovered  the  repulse  that 
Clara  had  gave  to  Walter  Manning. 

At  this  time,  all  London  rang  with  the  fame 
of  a  noted  fortune-teller,  who  had  shrewdly 
placed  her  prices  so  high  as  to  exclude  all  but 
the  better  classes,  and  very  few,  save  the  no 
bility,  were  able  to  patronize  her  on  this  ac 
count.  According  to  the  papery  of  the  day 
and  common  report,  this  woman  seemed  really 
possessed  of  secret  sources  of  information,  so 
potent  and  correct  as  to  completely  confound 
those  who  came  to  purchase  knowledge  of  her. 
Showing  an  understanding  of  human  nature 


and  an  experience  of  the  world  that  was  most 
remarkable,  this  woman  also  commanded,  in 
more  than  one  instance,  the  attention  of  the 
wise  and  philosophical,  who  came  to  her  often 
nonplussed  by  her  shrewdness  and  knowledge, 
as  well  as  by  her  consummate  tact. 

One  of  the  strongest  evidences  of  the  power 
she  possessed,  had  been  adduced  by  certain 
government  emissaries.  It  appeared  that 
some  of  the  police,  who  had  been  sent  to  her 
in  order  that  the  heads  of  the  department 
might  understand  what  was  transacted  at  her 
rooms,  were  not  a  little  puzzled,  for,  notwith 
standing  they  came  to  her  disguised  with  all 
the  art  of  their  calling,  she  coolly  told  them 
who  they  were  at  once,  and  that  they  would 
be  better  engaged  if  employed  in  suppressing 
crime  and  debauchery  in  the  metropolis,  and 
ended  by  giving  them  some  piece  of  informa 
tion,  which  she  pretended  to  have  learned 
through  her  miraculous  powers,  and  which  on 
being  inquired  into,  not  only  proved  correct, 
but  also  of  imminent  importance  to  the  po 
lice. 

It  required  but  a  very  few  circumstances  of 
this  character  to  transpire,  before  this  singular 
woman  had  as  much  business  as  she  could 
possibly  attend  to,  and  that  also  on  her  own 
terms,  being  forced  to  establish  regular  hours 
for  the  dispensing  of  her  power,  and  to  make 
other  regulations  that  should  enable  her  to 


193 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


answer  and  satisfy  the  increasing  demand 
upon  her  services.  Whether  possessed  of  re 
markable  wisdom  and  penetration,  or  whether 
getting  her  information  through  some  secret 
and  unusual  channel,  one  thing  was  very  cer 
tain — the  fortune-teller  did  reveal  most  re 
markable  and  truthful  things,  and  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  create  amazement  and  supersti 
tion  in  the  minds  of  those  who  resorted  to  her 
mystic  abode. 

Knowing  well  the  powerful  effect  upon  our 
nature  of  the  paraphernalia  and  pomp  of  cir 
cumstance,  and  the  surroundings  with  which 
one  hedges  one's  self  in,  the  fortune-teller  had 
taken  good  care  to  furnish  her  apartments  not 
only  in  the  richest  and  most  tasteful  manner, 
hut  also  to  place  here  and  there  among  the 
furniture  upon  the  tables  and  along  the  walls, 
strange  and  uncouth  symbols  of  subjects  that 
none  could  possibly  understand,  and  which 
must  have  been  manufactured  for  this  express 
purpose,  but  which  nevertheless  added  greatly 
to  the  effect  of  her  otherwise  strangely  deco 
rated  and  dimly  lighted  rooms,  and  to  the  pe 
culiar  surroundings  of  her  own  mysterious 
person,  all  being  admirably  arranged  for  ef 
fect. 

In  a  distant  corner  of  the  spacious  reception 
room  where  she  presided,  was  a  cross  of  ebony 
and  a  human  skull,  with  some  monastic  em 
blems,  flanked  on  either  side  by  lofty  burning 
candles  in  silver  candle  sticks.  In  the  corres 
ponding  corner  opposite,  were  diverse  Ma 
hometan  emblems,  the  Koran  and  Crescent, 
while  a  lamp  of  perfumed  oil,  and  pastilles  of 
incense,  and  myrrh  from  Palestine,  were  burn 
ing  upon  a  pedestal  hard  by  her  seat  of  state. 
In  another  corner,  was  the  emblematic  fire  of 
the  devout  Peruvians,  with  images  of  other 
nations  mingled  together,  forming  stars  arid 
triangles  upon  the  walls.  In  a  fourth,  there 
might  be  seen  the  idols  and  images  sacred  and 
profane  of  a  heathen  people,  cunningly  carved 
in  sandal  wood,  and  beside  them  were  mottoes 
and  letters  in  Chinese  and  other  obscure  and 
heathenish  characters,  with  emblematical  pic 
tures  rudely  pencilled  and  hung  by  their  side. 
A  Nubian  servant,  black  as  night  itself,  in 
a  Durban  of  purest  white,  with  the  correspond 
ing  dress  of  an  Arab,  received  the  visiters  to 
this  temple  of  mystery,  and  conducted  them  to 
the  mysterious  presence,  before  which  he  nev 
er  failed  to  kneel  and  bow  three  several  times, 


in  profound  respect,  at  each  return.  This 
strange  servant  was  in  himself  quite  a  singu 
lar  and  wonder  inducing  object.  No  solicita 
tions  could  induce  him  to  speak,  though  he 
bowed  low  and  accepted  all  pecuniary  gratu 
ities  that  was  offered  him  by  those  who  came 
to  consult  his  mistress.  It  was  supposed  that 
the  Nubian  was  dumb. 

The  mistress  of  all  this  strange  arrange 
ment,  had  a  coarse  and  masculine  expression 
of  countenance,  with  swarthy  feature*  like 
those  of  a  Turk.  Her  face  was  partly  screen 
ed  by  a  closely  fitting  turban,  covered  with 
many  strange  emblems  and  figures,  and  sur 
mounted  by  a  serpent  coiled  at  the  feet  of  a 
pure  white  dove,  formed  of  silver.  Her 
voice  was  deep  and  sententious,  but  there  was 
one  redeeming  feature  in  that  strange  and  re 
pulsive  countenance,  which  seemed  capable  of 
so  much  expression,  of  either  fierceness  or  plea 
sure,  and  which  seemed  to  read  the  visitor's 
most  secret  thoughts. 

We  say  all  London  was  filled  with  curiosi 
ty,  touching  the  strange  fortune-teller  to  whom 
we  have  referred.  The  carriages  of  the  no 
bility  were  constantly  stopping  before  her 
door,  and  waiting  patiently  there  for  their  turn 
to  be  admitted.  Some  came  incited  by  mere 
curiosity  concerning  one  who  was  able  to 
create  such  a  furor;  others,  more  credulous, 
came  with  a  secret  prompting  of  superstition, 
and  a  desire  to  learn  those  things  which  ordi 
nary  life  and  the  everyday  resources  of  time 
leave  undeveloped,  and  many  were  the  strange 
questions  that  were  put  to  the  mysterious  wo 
man,  by  lover  and  husband,  male  and  female 
visitant. 

"  Have  you  heard  any  particulars  about 
this  strange  woman,  of  whom  it  is  said  that 
she  knows  everything,  and  who  is  able  to  look 
into  futurity  with  an  eye  as  clear  as  other 
people  view  the  past?" 

These  words  were  addressed  by  Walter 
Manning  to  Edith  and  Clara,  who  sat  together 
in  the  drawing-room,  a  few  evenings  subse 
quent  to  that  which  we  have  particularly  re 
ferred  to.  Sir  Robert  Brompton  was  engag 
ed  over  a  game  of  chess  with  Lord  Amidown 
in  one  corner,  Awhile  the  ladies  and  Walter 
were  sitting  together  in  another. 

"  Sir  Robert  was  saying  that  several  of  his 
club  had  made  up  a  party  to  go  and  see  her," 
replied  Clara.  "  Is  it  not  very  singular  that 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


199 


a  pretended  fortune-teller  should  be  able  to 
create  so  much  interest  and  curiosity  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  this  woman  is  different  from  any 
of  her  class  I  have  ever  heard  of.  She  is 
really  a  very  remarkable  person,  and  one  who 
reveals  such  matters  as  prove  conclusively 
that  she  is  either  gifted  with  superhuman  wis 
dom,  or  that  she  has  extraordinary  means  for 
obtaining  all  sorts  of  information,"  said  Wal 
ter. 

"  Do  you  really  believe  her  to  be  gifted 
above  other  people  ?"  asked  Edith,  quietly. 

"  If  we  believe  the  evidence  of  respectable 
people,  she  must  be  so,  though  as  I  have  not 
yet  seen  her  myself,  I  must  acknowledge  that 
I  am  a  little  skeptical,"  answered  Walter. 

"  For  my  part,  I  cannot  bring  my  mind  to 
that  degree  of  credulity  that  will  allow  me  to 
believe  in  witches ;  it  seems  to  me  too  fool 
ish,"  said  Clara. 

"  She  is  no  witch,"  said  Walter,  "  but  sim 
ply  pretends  to  foretell  the  future." 

"  What  is  that  but  downright  witchcraft  ?" 
asked  Clara.  "  If  she  can  do  that,  she  can  do 
things  even  more  wonderful.  Now,  Walter, 
surely  you  don't  believe  in  this  woman." 

«'  As  yet  I  am  not  prepared  to  say,"  answer 
ed  Walter,  with  assumed  gravity. 

* "  He's  not  in  earnest,  Clara — don't  heed 
him,"  said  Edith,  pleasantly. 

"  I  not  in  earnest  ?     Now,  Edith — " 

"  Stay,  here  comes  Lord  Amidown ;  let  us 
see  what  he  will  say,"  interrupted  Clara. 

"  Pray  what  are  you  discussing  ?"  asked  his 
lordship,  approaching  them  from  across  the 
room,  having  finished  his  game  of  chess  with 
Sir  Robert.  "  What  is  the  topic  ?" 

"  About  a  witch,"  said  Clara,  biting  the  top 
of  her  fan,  and  trying  to  study  the  expression 
of  his  lordship's  face,  as  she  saw  his  eyes  rest 
upon  Edith.  "  Witch  or  no  witch,  that's  the 
question,  my  lord." 

"  A  fortune-teller,  you  mean,  don't  you  ?" 
asked  Lord  Amidown. 

"A  fortune-teller  or  a  witch,  just  as  you 
please  to  have  it,"  replied  Clara,  pleasantly. 

"  Why  do  you  call  her  a  witch  ?" 

"  Because  Walter  ascribes  to  her  the  most 
witch-like  power,"  said  Clara,  smiling. 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,  Sir  Robert  and  myself 
were  talking  about  the  same  person — Madame 
Duvall.  She  really  seems  to  have  created 


considerable  interest  and  attention.     Let  us 
make  up  a  party  and  go  to  her  rooms." 

'•  To  have  our  fortunes  told  ?" 

"  Ay,  or  merely  for  observation,"  replied 
Lord  Amidown,  "  as  you  please." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Clara;  "  I  think 
I  should  enjoy  a  visit." 

"  Will  you  go,  Edith  ?"  asked  Lord  Ami- 
down,  turning  towards  her. 

"  O,  yes ;  if  Sir  Robert  and  Clara  go,  I 
will  go  with  pleasure." 

"Very  good.  I'll  go  and  persuade  him  di 
rectly,"  said  his  lordship,  crossing  over  to 
where  Sir  Robert  was  sitting. 

Sir  Robert  having  agreed  to  the  proposal, 
a  party  was  made  up  for  the  following  after 
noon,  embracing  them  all,  and  after  agreeing 
to  puzzle  the  witch  with  their  queries,  and 
also  promising  to  compare  notes  as  to  her  an 
swers  after  they  should  have  passed  through 
the  proposed  interview,  they  separated  for  the 
night.  Walter  seemed  to  be  the  most  credu 
lous  of  the  party,  and  appeared  really  to 
think  that  the  woman  possessed  superhuman 
powers,  but  as  to  Sir  Robert  and  Lord  Ami- 
down,  they  laughed  at  the  idea  of  her  being 
able  to  impart  to  them  any  positive  informa 
tion,  but  went  out  of  curiosity,  and  to  make 
up  the  party.  Clara  laughed  at  all  such 
things,  but  Edith,  though  she  said  nothing, 
was  more  than  half  credulous  as  to  the  witch's 
honesty.  She  had  heard  from  her  friends  of 
the  extraordinary  power  of  the  person  referred 
to,  and  indeed  had  really  listened  to  exam 
ples  of  her  performance  that  were  most  re 
markable  and  confounding.  In  short,  Mad 
ame  Duvall's  name  was  in  everybody's  mouth. 

It  was  nearly  twilight  on  the  following 
day,  when  Sir  Robert  and  his  party  took  their 
seats  in  his  carriage  to  drive  to  the  far-famed 
fortune-teller's  residence.  By  chance,  or  the 
shrewd  management  of  some  one,  the  party 
were  seated,  as  it  regarded  the  gentlemen's 
feelings,  exactly  contrary  to  what  they  would 
have  desired  themselves,  Walter  being  by 
Edith's  side  and  Lord  Amidown  by  Clara's — 
but  a  half  hour's  drive  brought  them  to  the 
point  of  their  destination.  Arrived  here, 
their  cards  were  received  and  transmitted  with 
as  much  etiquette  and  formality  as  would 
have  been  observed  on  a  visit  to  the  court, 
and  at  last  they  were  informed,  after  waiting 
impatiently  in  an  ante-room  for  some  length 


200 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


of  time,  that  they  would  be  granted  audience 
of  the  august  dealer  in  mysteries  past  and  fu 
ture,  and  being  thus  encouraged,  they  followed 
the  lead  of  the  Nubian,  whose  skin  shone  like 
polished  ebony,  towards  the  witch's  presence. 

They  entered,  all  together,  and  paused  as 
they  stepped  within  the  door,  to  survey  the 
singular  character  of  the  apartment  which  we 
have  already  partially  described.  The  woman 
sat  upon  a  raised  pedestal,  calm  and  stern 
in  her  mysterious  gravity.  She  held  a  mar 
ble  tablet  in  her  hand,  on  which  she  seemed 
now  and  then  to  be  making  figures  with  a 
large  crayon,  but  only  a  few  moments  had 
elapsed  during  which  the  new  comers  noted 
these  things,  and  glanced  about  the  room, 
when  the  Nubian  approached  them  and  asked 
which  of  those  present  would  first  consult  his 
mistress.  After  a  moment's  hesitation,  Sir 
Eobert  motioned  Lord  Amidown  to  go  forward 
first,  while  they  remained  as  spectators,  and 
following  the  servant  who  bowed  low  before 
the  mysterious  woman,  his  lordship  stood  be 
fore  her. 

"  I  come,"  said  he,  "  to  obtain  information 
which,  it  is  said,  you  can  impart,  concerning 
those  things  which  are  hidden  from  the  eyes 
and  knowledge  of  other  mortals." 

"  You  would  know  of  the  future,"  said  the 
woman,  gazing  intently  upon  him  ;  "  but  first 
you  would  know  of  me  something  to  prove 
that  my  knowledge  and  power  are  sufficient  to 
reach  your  case.  Then,  listen ;  you  are  no 
bly  born,  with  a  single  sister  living,  and  no 
parents ;  with  you  rests  the  long  and  honored 
line  from  which  you  have  sprung.  Shall  I 
whisper  in  your  ear  with  which  of  yonder 
ladies  you  are  in  love  ?" 

Lord  Amidown,  almost  trembling  at  the 
turn  the  conversation  had  thus  taken,  whis 
pered  assent  as  he  drew  still  nearer  to  the 
woman,  in  order  to  catch  her  words,  and  when 
he  drew  back  again,  his  face  showed  that  the 
woman  had  spoken  correctly  in  designating 
between  Edith  and  Clara. 

"Have  I  spoken  aright?"  she  demanded, 
calmly,  of  Lord  Amidown. 

"  You  have,"  said  his  lordship.  "Pray  go 
on,  and  tell  me  of  the  future." 

"  Hold,"  said  the  woman,  making  a  few 
figures  upon  the  slab  she  held.  "A  dim 
cloud  shadows  your  future,  hanging  most 
densely  over  the  matter  of  your  love.  If  my 


knowledge  is  worth  aught  to  you,  then  heed 
it.  Your  own  pride  will  snap  the  silken  cord, 
but  the  revelation  of  one  interested,  will  join 
these  bonds  once  more.  I  have  done." 

"  Surely  you  will  not  be  so  indefinite  as 
this  ?"  said  Lord  Amidown. 

"  I  can  look  no  deeper,"  replied  the  woman, 
motioning  him  away. 

Lord  Amidown  came  away  evidently  much 
impressed  with  what  he  had  heard  from  the 
lips  of  the  fortune-teller,  while  Walter  Man 
ning,  at  a  signal  from  Sir  Robert,  was  the 
next  to  approach  the  raised  seat  of  the  strange 
woman,  and  to  yield  his  hand  for  her  minute 
inspection.  She  seemed  to  gaze  long  and 
thoughtfully  at  its  various  lines. 

"  You  are  from  the  East,"  she  said,  at 
last,  "  and  an  orphan ;  you,  like  your  friend, 
are  also  in  love ;  ovei  your  future  destiny  a 
thickening  sky  shadows  your  path  so  deeply 
that  all  seems  as  night.  Far  be  it  from  me 
to  discourage  a  frank  and  manly  heart,  but  I 
shall  speak  no  more  to  you  of  the  future." 

"  But  you  have  discovered  nothing  at  all  to 
me,  as  yet,"  he  said. 

"  Shall  I  prove  to  you  my  knowledge  of 
that  which  concerns  you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  rescue  some  three 
years  since  in  the  tap-room  of  St.  Giles  ?" 

"  Hush,"  said  Walter,  fearing  that  they 
were  overheard — for  that  scene  was  still  a 
secret  with  Sir  Robert. 

"  You  are  satisfied  ?" 

"  I  am." 

Walter  turned  to  his  party  and  tried  to 
laugh,  but  a  weight  had  been  cast  upon  his 
heart  that  he  found  impossible  to  shake  off, 
and  yet  he  was  not  superstitious.  The  char 
acter  of  the  place  was  such  as  at  once  to  di 
vest  one  of  all  mirthful  promptings,  and  then 
everything  was  conducted  with  such  grave 
and  steady  purpose,  that  it  seemed  impossible 
not  to  be  impressed  with  awe.  Besides  this, 
the  woman  had  told  Walter  of  facts  that  had 
occurred  in  his  past  life,  that  he  knew  no  pos 
sible  means  o(  her  having  learned  by  any 
ordinary  course  of  events ;  some  mysterious 
and  superhuman  agency  must  have  aided 
her.  Then,  too,  he  read  in  Lord  Amidown's 
face  convictions  no  less  evident  and  strong 
than  he  already  felt  within  himself.  Edith 
and  Clara  had  noted  the  singular  effect  that 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


201 


their  interview  had  produced  upon  both  Wal 
ter  and  his  lordship — they  said  nothing. 

Edith,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  was 
next  led  before  the  woman's  chair,  who,  taking 
her  fair  hand  within  her  own,  gazed  intently 
at  the  palm  and  into  the  face  of  its  owner, 
with  evident  tokens  of  deep  interest.  It  was 
some  moments  before  she  spoke.  Walter  and 
Lord  Amidown  thought  that  she  was  much 
moved  from  some  cause  or  other ;  but  be  this 
as  it  may,  she  seemed  to  be  quite  herself 
again,  as  she  said,  in  her  deep  hoarse  voice  : 

"  A  fair,  transplanted  flower,  the  mildew  of 
pride  and  the  pestilence  of  disappointment 
will  blight  it,  but  it  shall  blossom  in  fragrance 
again." 

There  was  a  pause  for  some  moments,  after 
she  had  thus  spoken. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  no  more  ?"  asked  Edith, 
at  length,  timidly,  with  her  eyes  bent  upon 
the  floor. 

•'  Of  the  past,  fair  girl,  or  of  the  future  ?" 
asked  the  woman,  gazing  earnestly  at  her. 
"  The  former  in  your  case  it  were  better  to 
hurry  into  oblivion.  Do  you  not  think  so  ?" 

"  I  do,"  said  Edith,  blushing  deeply,  as 
she  answered  the  strange  woman. 

"  Of  the  future,  I  have  spoken  to  you  al 
ready,"  said  the  woman,  waving  her  hand  for 
her  to  retire  from  her  presence. 

Edith  returned  almost  trembling,  to  the 
arm  of  Sir  Robert,  who,  noticing  her  tremor, 
quietly  assured  her,  while  Clara,  with  a  cheer 
ful  smile,  and  light  step,  followed  the  Nubian 
to  the  woman's  seat.  The  fortune-teller 
seemed  to  be  even  more  interested  in  her 
than  she  had  been  in  Edith,  and  gazed  longer 
and  more  intently  upon  her  before  she  spoke. 
She  even  covered  her  face  for  a  moment,  and 
seemed  to  be  ruminating  within  herself  with 
earnest  thought,  but  raising  her  hand  soon  af 
ter,  she  said  : 

((  A  strange,  strange  fortune,  child,  is  thine. 
Twice  transplanted,  the  past  victim  of  strange 
mishaps,  and  a  hard  fortune,  the  future  victim 
of  thine  own  delicacy." 

After  waiting  for  a  moment  to  see  if  the  wo 
man  had  any  more  that  she  would  voluntarily 
communicate,  Clara  asked  : 

"  May  I  profit  by  your  knowledge  and  know 
more  of  the  future  ?" 

"  No  more,"  said  the  woman  waving  her 
away  as  she  had  done  before. 


Clara  seeing  that  there  was  no  use  in  im 
portuning  the  woman  had  she  felt  inclined  to 
do  so,  turned  towards  her  companions  with  a 
shaded  countenance,  and  a  quick,  throbbing 
pulse. 

There  was  a  pause  among  them  all  for  a 
few  moments,  scarcely  broken  by  a  single 
word,  and  during  which  it  seemed  to  Edith 
and  Clara  as  though  the  beating  of  their 
hearts  must  be  audible  to  those  about  them. 
All  turned  to  Sir  Robert,  to  await  his  turn, 
and  then  to  leave  a  place  that  had  seemed  to 
chill  their  spirits  with  icy  coldness.  Sir  Rob 
ert  approached  the  woman  and  paused  before 
her.  She  looked  sternly  at  him  for  some  mo 
ments,  and  then  said : 

"  Of  what  shall  I  tell  you,  Sir  Robert  Bromp- 
ton — what  phase  of  life  will  you  have  me  de 
lineate  ?  Shall  I  speak  to  you  of  the  past, 
the  present  or  the  future  ?" 

"  As  you  please,  of  either  portion  of  time 
that  you  will." 

"  You  smile  as  you  reply,  and  incredulity  is 
written  on  your  face." 

"  I  am  not  over  credulous,"  said  Sir  Robert, 
smiling  derisively. 

"  Then  test  me  ;  of  what  shall  I  speak  ?" 
said  the  woman. 

"  Of  the  future  if  you  can,"  said  Sir  Rob 
ert,  "  though  I  must  say  that  I  probably  know 
as  much  of  to-morrow,  as  you  or  any  other 
human  being  can  do." 

"Perhaps  as  you  are  so  incredulous,  it  were 
better  that  I  should  convince  you  of  my 
knowledge  by  referring  to  some  matter  which 
you  may  think  is  known  only  to  yourself; 
would  such  proof  be  satisfactory  ?" 

"  It  would,"  said  Sir  Robert,  evincing  no 
little  interest  at  her  remark. 

"  Draw  nearer,  Sir  Robert." 

"  Go  on,"  said  he,  drawing  close  to  the  side 
of  her  chair. 

The  woman  leaned  forward  so  as  to  whis 
per  in  his  very  ear.  She  uttered,  seemingly, 
but  a  single  word,  but  that  was  a  most  potent 
one,  for  it  acted  upon  her  visiter  like  magic. 
He  started  back,  gazed  at  the  woman  and 
those  about  him  for  a  moment  as  though  he 
was  bewildered,  then  drawing  his  purse  from 
his  pocket,  he  threw  it  at  her  feet,  and  seizing 
the  arm  of  Edith,  led  the  way  with  the  utmost 
speed  from  the  room. 

"  Why  do  you  hurry  so  ?"  asked  Walter  of 


202 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


Sir  Robert,  as  he  struggled  forward  through 
the  crowd  to  get  to  their  carriage. 

"  Hurry  ?  0,1  am  in  no  particular  hurry, 
but  it  is  very  unpleasant  here,"  he  replied, help 
ing  the  ladies  into  the  carriage  as  he  did  so. 

"  It  is  true  there  is  little  satisfaction  to  be 
had  here,"  said  Walter,  shrugging  his  shoul 
ders  significantly. 

"  I  wish  we  had  not  come,"  whispered  Cla 
ra,  to  Edith,  "  for  though  one  is  not  prepared 
to  believe  all  that  the  woman  said,  yet  there 
was  something  about  the  place,  so  strange  and 
mysterious,  that  I  could  not  but  feel  mystified 
all  the  while." 

"  It  would  have  been  better,  perhaps,  not  to 
have  come,"  answered  Edith. 

"  See  Sir  Robert,"  continued  Clara,  in  a 
whisper,  "  he  looks  quite  miserable.  It  is 
queer  what  the  woman  could  have  said  to  dis 
concert  him  so  much." 

"  It  is  very  odd.  I  have  observed  him  ever 
since  with  pain,  for  he  seems  most  unhappy." 

"  She  was  very  vague  and  indefinite,"  con 
tinued  Clara,  addressing  Walter  in  an  under 
tone,  "  and  had  probably  learned  just  enough 
about  us  to  seem  to  know  much  more." 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  I  must  acknowledge  that 
she  gave  me  evidence  of  her  possessing  infor 
mation  that  I  thought  known  only  to  a  very 
few,  upon  a  subject  upon  which  it  did  not 
seem  possible  that  she  could  have  had  any 
previous  knowledge." 

All  this  had  been  whispered  as  it  were 
from  one  to  the  other  in  a  moment  of  time, 
when  Sir  Robert,  who  had  now  fairly  taken 
his  seat,  looked  up  impatiently,  and  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  effectually  put  a  stop  to  any  oth 
er  remarks  of  a  similar  nature. 

In  a  quick,  irritable  tone  of  voice,  he  told 
the  coachman  to  drive  them  home,  and  the 
man  knowing  well  his  master's  disposition, 
cracked  his  lash,  and  hurried  away. 


Could  they  have  returned  for  a  moment  to 
the  fortune-teller's  room,  they  might  have  seen 
that  their  visit  had  created  more  than  the  or 
dinary  degree  of  interest  in  the  woman  her 
self,  who  was  now  watching  them  through  a 
small  side  window  with  a  curious  eye. 

The  party  of  Sir  Robert  Brompton  and  his 
friends  as  they  drove  away  from  the  fortune 
teller's  rooms,  presented  a  contrast  of  the  most 
marked  character  as  it  regarded  their  spirits, 
when  compared  with  their  cheerful  mien  as 
they  entered  the  house  of  mystery  but  one 
short  hour^before.  Sir  Robert  seemed  to  be 
the  most  affected  of  them  all,  and  appeared 
most  strangely  disconcerted.  True,  the  rest 
looked  sad  enough,  and  if  they  believed  the 
prophecy  that  had  just  been  read  to  them,  they 
had  reason  to  feel  so,  for  not  one  of  them  had 
much  pleasure  to  contemplate  in  the  fulfilment 
of  these  predictions  which  the  woman  had  so 
confidently  uttered,  and  so  cunningly  enforced. 

Edith  felt  less  fear  or  sorrow  for  herself, 
than  she  did  .to  notice  Sir  Robert's  evident  un 
easiness,  and  by  her  gentle  and  soothing  con 
versation  on  their  way  home,  she  tried  to  make 
him  forget  their  late  visit  to  the  fortune-teller 
who  had  evidently,  by  some  chance,  touched 
upon  some  unhappy  theme  with  him.  All  her 
efforts,  however,  to  awake  his  wonted  spirits 
failed,  and  Sir  Robert  remained  exceedingly 
nervous  all  the  way  home.  As  to  Lord  Ami- 
down,  Walter  and  Clara,  they  seemed  dispos 
ed  to  remain  silent  and  to  meditate  upon  the 
promises  of  the  fortune-teller.  By  some  se 
cret  power  or  influence,  the  strange  woman 
had  most  markedly  affected  them  all,  and  each 
seeing  this  in  the  other,  became  still  more  con 
scious  of  the  fact,  and  more  impressed  within 
themselves  with  forebodings  and  gloom. 

In  the  succeeding  chapters  the  reader  will 
have  an  opportunity  to  judge  as  to  the  correct 
ness  of  the  fortune-teller's  predictions. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 


THE    DISAPPOINTMENT. 


——And  is  not  love  in  Tain 
Torture  enough  without  a  living  tomb  ? 


BYROW. 


THE  events  described  in  the  last  chapter 
cast  a  deep  gloom,  for  a  few  days,  over  the 
house  of  Sir  Robert  Brompton.  He  seemed, 
himself,  to  be  more  than  usually  depressed  and 
gloomy,  and  shut  up  within  his  study,  remain 
ed  thus  almost  constantly  by  himself,  avoiding 
even  his  family  circle  at  meals,  and  in  short, 
so  to  conduct  himself  as  to  lead  them  all  to 
wonder  at  his  conduct,  though  nothing  was 
openly  said  upon  the  subject. 

Whatever  it  might  have  been  that  the  for 
tune-teller  referred  to,  it  was  of  a  character 
that  harrowed  up  Sir  Robert's  memory  of  the 
past  in  a  most  poignant  manner,  and  indeed, 
must  have  been  of  the  gravest  import  possible. 
He  was  a  person  of  too  strong  a  mind  and  re 
solution  to  be  needlessly  moved,  and  it  was 
this  fact,  that  led  those  who  knew  him  best 
to  wonder  at  his  conduct.  Edith,  whose  love 
for  her  patron  led  her  to  observe  him  more 
particularly  than  the  rest  were  apt  to  do,  often 
heard  him  walking  his  room  with  a  hurried 
step  late  into  the  hours  of  night. 

By  common  consent  the  subject  of  their 
visit  to  the  fortune-teller's  was  not  referred  to, 
for  all  could  see  that  some  unpleasant  recollec 
tion  had  been  brought  to  Sir  Robert's  mind  by 
the  consultation  that  had  been  held  there. 
Besides  which  none  of  the  family  felt  inclin 
ed  to  revive  the  memory  of  their  visit  to  the 
place,  since  all  felt  a  certain  mysterious  awe 


and  dread  touching  the  singular  predictions 
that  had  been  made. 

The  peculiar  situation  of  affairs  between 
Lord  Amidown  and  Edith  in  particular,  seem 
ed  to  be  of  a  character  that  must  be  more 
definitely  settled  ere  long.  True,  she  had  an 
swered  his  letter  and  declined  his  suit,  but  to 
one  so  ardently  impressed  with  love  as  his 
lordship  had  been,  all  that  was  as  nothing;  he 
must  be  rejected  by  her  own  lips,  and  that  too 
beyond  all  possibility  of  hope,  else  he  would 
not  be  satisfied.  Thus  actuated,  he  had  deter 
mined  at  the  first  appropriate  moment  to  press 
his  suit  more  warmly  and  in  person.  Though 
in  Edith's  subsequent  manner  towards  him  he 
could  gather  no  especial  hope,  yet  it  was  im 
possible  for  him  so  easily  to  resign  an  object 
in  which  his  happiness  seemed  to  be  complete 
ly  merged,  and  he  watched  an  opportunity 
when  he  might  speak  to  her  upon  the  subject, 
but  as  she  appeared  to  avoid  any  such  chance 
and  never  to  see  Lord  Amidown  except  in  the 
presen.ce  of  others,  he  grew  not  a  little  impa 
tient  in  his  anxiety. 

"  Walter,"  said  he  one  day,  "  I  can't  get  a 
chance  to  say  one  word  to  Edith  in  private, 
and  I  desire  to  have  an  interview  very  much 
concerning  a  very  important  matter,  both  to 
her  and  myself." 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  I  don't  prevent  you 
do  I  ?"  asked  Walter,  smiling. 


204 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  Why  no,  Walter,  not  exactly,  but  couldn't 
you  manage  it  so  as  to  help  bring  one  about, 
eh?" 

"  If  I  can  help  you  in  such  a  purpose,  I  will 
do  so  most  assuredly." 

"  Thank  you,  Walter,  for  I  am  as  nervous 
as  an  old  woman  upon  the  subject." 

Edith  had  been  quite  ill,  and  indeed  confin 
ed  to  her  room  for  some  days  from  the  excite 
ment  of  mind  that  she  had  recently  experienc 
ed,  and  from  her  anxiety  in  behalf  of  Sir  Rob 
ert,  who  hardly  appeared  to  be  himself  since 
the  unfortunate  visit  to  the  strange  woman 
they  had  all  consulted.  But  some  weeks  had 
elapsed  since  that  eventful  day,  and  she  was 
now  much  better.  She  had  almost  regained 
her  usual  color  and  calmness,  and  having  left 
her  room  for  the  first  time,  was  sitting  or  rath 
er  reclining  upon  a  couch  in  the  drawing-room, 
when  Lord  Amidown  came  in.  It  was  a 
chance  meeting.  Edith's  couch  was  placed  in 
a  shady  alcove  of  the  apartment  Lord  Ami- 
down  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so 
beautiful.  Her  delicate  complexion  reflected 
the  scarlet  of  the  hanging  curtains,  while  her 
eye,  in  spite  of  all  her  caution,  bespoke  a  wel 
come  to  him  who  bent  so  tenderly  over  her. 

"  Edith,"  said  Lord  Amidown,  tenderly, "I 
am  most  happy  to  see  you  well  enough  to  be 
here." 

"  Thank  you,  my  lord,"  she  replied,  as  a 
warmer  glow  suffused  her  cheek. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  conceive  a  fairer  pic 
ture  than  Edith  presented  at  that  moment. 
She  was  just  ripening  into  the  fairest  propor 
tions  of  womanhood,  like  the  swelling  bud 
that  opes  its  petals  to  the  genial  warmth  of 
summer.  Her  graceful  form  displayed  a  per 
fection  of  mould  and  beauty  rarely  attained 
by  one  so  young,  while  she  bore  herself  with 
a  pliant,  winning  grace  that  seemed  the  very 
embodiment  of  ease.  Her  dark,  glossy  hair 
was  smoothly  parted  across  her  brow  and  close 
ly  looped  by  a  golden  clasp  at  the  back  of  the 
head,  from  which  confinement  it  hung  in  long 
and  natural  curls.  Her  features  were  brilliant 
ly  lighted  up  by  eyes  whose  wealth  of  thought 
and  tenderness  beamed  forth  with  every  smile 
that  dimpled  her  fair,  soft  cheek.  Lord  Ami- 
down  felt  that  so  much  did  he  love  her  now,  no 
power  on  earth  could  win  him  from  her,  if  that 
love  were  but  truly  returned  from  her  own 
breast.  He  could  hardly  refrain  from  kneel 


ing  at  her  feet  even  before  Clara,  and  declar 
ing  the  love  that  so  thrilled  and  warmed  his 
heart. 

Clara,  blooming,  cheerful  and  apparently  as 
happy  as  ever,  sat  by  Edith's  head  and  held 
one  of  her  hands  kindly  in  her  own.  A  close 
observer  might  have  detected  a  glow  of  pleas 
ure  and  satisfaction  on  the  fair  girl's  cheek  as 
she  observed  the  tenderness  and  love  that 
beamed  from  Lord  Amidown's  eyes  upon 
Edith.  Her  heart  knew  no  jealousy,  and  she 
felt  really  happy  that  Edith,  whom  she  loved 
so  well,  was  justly  appreciated.  As  Lord 
Amidown  seated  himself,  and  drew  his  chair 
nearer  to  the  couch,  Clara  pleasantly  observed 
that  she  would  resign  her  post  to  his  lordship 
for  a  few  moments,  and  passing  to  another  part 
of  the  room,  began  to  turn  over  and  examine 
some  engravings  upon  a  centre  table,  until 
Walter  Manning  happening  to  come  in,  drew 
her  to  a  seat  and  engaged  her  in  some  pleas 
ant  bit  of  town  gossip. 

"  Clara,"  said  Walter,  after  looking  a  mo 
ment  at  Lord  Amidown  and  Edith,  and  re 
membering  his  promise  to  aid  him  in  a  certain 
object  if  opportunity  should  offer,  "  Clara,  you 
haven't  seen  the  superb  new  Encyclopedia 
that  Sir  Robert  has  got  in  his  library,  have 
you  ?  the  one  in  four  volumes  and  illumined  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Clara,  giving  Walter  a  look  of 
intelligence  that  almost  made  him  blush. 
"  Can  we  see  it  now  ?" 

"  O,  yes,  Sir  Robert  is  not  in.  Will  you  go 
in  and  look  at  it  ?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  she  replied.  "  I  am 
going  to  the  library  a  few  minutes,  Edith,  with 
Walter,"  she  continued. 

If  Clara  had  read  the  expression  on  Edith's 
face  at  that  moment,  she  would  have  seen  a 
regret  there  at  being  left  alone  with  Lord  Ami- 
down.  His  lordship  noticed  and  interpreted 
the  expression  correctly,  but  his  heart  was  too 
full  of  love  for  him  to  remahi  silent ;  he  deem 
ed  this  a  most  propitious  moment,  one  such  as 
he  had  long  been  wishing  for,  and  feeling  thus, 
he  gazed  for  a  moment  upon  the  fair  being  be 
fore  him,  and  taking  her  passive  hand  within 
his  own  he  said  : 

"  Forgive  me,  Edith,  I  implore  you  to  for 
give  me,  if  I  seem  rude  or  intrusive  at  this 
time,  but  I  cannot  help  referring  to  the  notes 
which  have  lately  passed  between  us." 

"  Your  lordship  is  never  rude,"  said  Edith, 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


205 


slightly  coloring  at  the  mention  of  the  subject 
he  referred  to. 

"  Thrxnk  you,  Edith,  I  trust  not ;  but  why 
did  you  write  to  me  so  discouragingly,  why 
say  that  I  must  never  hope  for  a  nearer  rela 
tionship  between  us  than  the  name  of  friend 
will  indicate  ?  How  could  you  pen  me  such 
an  answer,  Edith,  one  that  has  made  me  so 
unhappy  ?'' 

"  My  lord,"  said  the  gentle  girl,  with  a  still 
heightening  color,  "  I  wrote  to  you  the  truth 
only.  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  de 
ceive  one  who  had  been  so  frank  and  noble  in 
his  friendship  to  me." 

"  Deceive  me,"  said  Lord  Amidown  with 
surprise.  "  Why,  Edith,  what  possible  reason 
can  there  be  why  two  hearts  that  love  each 
other  truly — for  I  know  that  I  am  not  indiffer 
ent  to  you — should  not  be  united  ?" 

"  Let  us  drop  this  subject,  my  lord,"  said 
Edith,  "  I  asked  that  it  might  be  so  in  my 
note." 

"  You  did ;  but  Edith,  when  I  tell  you  that 
my  future  happiness  is  so  nearly  connected 
with  this  matter,  I  trust  that  you  will  acknowl 
edge  it  sufficient  excuse  for  my  urging  an  ex 
planation,  will  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  0  yes  indeed,  my  lord,  I  do  not  know 
what  I  say." 

"  Pray  be  calm,  Edith.  I  beg  you  not  to 
let  me  distress  you." 

"  My  lord,"  said  Edith,  with  a  struggle  to  be 
calm,  "I  am  a  simple  girl,  wholly  unequal  to 
argue  with  your  lordship,  but  I  know  within 
my  own  heart,  that  it  is  best  that  we  should 
part  at  once." 

"  At  once  ?" 

"  Ay,  my  lord,  this  very  hour,"  she  replied 
earnestly,  "  this  very  moment." 

"  But  why,  Edith  ?  All  this  seems  most 
incomprehensible  to  me.  When  I  realize,  as 
I  do  now,  that  my  future  happiness  in  life  is 
at  stake,  surely  it  seems  to  me  as  though  I 
had  a  right  to  know  why  its  hopes  may  not  be 
consummated,  and  why  my  heart  is  to  be 
blighted  in  its  first  and  only  love." 

"  My  lord,  I  feel  that  I  am  too  weak  and  ill 
to  answer  you  now,"  she  replied,  almost  trem 
bling  with  excitement.  And  she  had  grown 
so  pile  while  she  spoke  that  Lord  Amidown 
noticed  the  alteration  as  he  said : 

"  If  that  be  the  reason  why  you  may  not 
speak,  Edith,  then  I  will  by  no  means  press 


you  further,"  he  replied ;  "  but  will  not  a  word 
explain  all,  and  place  me  out  of  this  unhappy 
and  protracted  suspense  ?" 

"  A  word  ?"  repeated  Edith. 

"  Ay,  as  briefly  as  thou  wilt." 

There  was  but  a  moment's  pause,  in  which 
Edith  seemed  to  be  summoning  courage  for 
some  trying  purpose. 

"  My  lord,"  she  said  at  last,  prepared  to 
speak  by  the  manner  in  which  he  had  urged 
her,  "  I  will  speak  out  boldly.  Perhaps  it  is 
best  for  us  both,  though  it  may  cost  me  much 
suffering.  You  are  noble  by  birth  and  nature, 
the  blood  that  courses  through  your  veins  is 
the  tide  of  a  noble  line  of  ancestors  whom  you 
reckon  for  many  centuries  back,  you  are  titled, 
rich  and  talented — " 

"  Nay,  Edith—" 

"  Interrupt  me  not,  my  lord,"  she  said,  ris 
ing  from  her  recumbent  posture  in  the  excite 
ment  that  moved  her,  "  it  is  fit  indeed  that  I 
speak,  and  speak  truly.  You  seek  my  hand 
in  honorable  union,  you  would  lead  me  to  the 
altar  with  full  confidence  in  me,  all  heedless  of 
my  humble  position,  my  fortune,  or  of  aught 
else  that  concerns  me,  save  that  which  our 
everyday  acquaintance  may  have  chanced  to 
impart.  Now  were  I  to  impose  upon  you, 
who  in  your  generosity  of  heart  would  make 
me  the  sharer  of  the  high  position  and  name 
that  are  yours,  then  should  I  be  indeed  most 
unworthy  of  the  regard  you  profess  for  me,  or 
even  of  your  respect ;  nay,  I  should  do  you, 
my  lord,  a  foul  and  bitter  wrong,  by  accepting 
the  hand  you  so  frankly  offer  me." 

"  I  know,  or  at  least  have  understood,  that 
you  are  of  humble  parentage  and  an  orphan," 
said  Lord  Amidown,  kindly,  "  but  what  of 
that,  Edith?  I  love  you  for  yourself,  not  for 
the  associations  of  family  or  property." 

"  Humbly  born,  say  you,  my  lord  ?  Hum 
bly  born  !"  repeated  Edith  slowly,  and  with 
a  bitter  sarcasm  of  expression  upon  her  lips 
that  almost  startled  him  as  he  gazed  at  her. 

"  1  said  humbly  born,  Edith,  but  I  trust  I 
gave  no  offence  by  the  remark,"  repeated  Lord 
Amidown,  as  he  gazed  with  undisguised 
amazement  at  the  strange  expression  he  read 
in  her  face. 

"  Worse  than  humbly  born,  my  lord,  far 
worse  than  that,"  she  said.  "Offence?  O, 
no,  there's  no  offence  ;  I  did  not  mean  that," 


206 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


she  continued,  with  a  cool,  deliberate  expres 
sion  that  quite  chilled  him. 

"  I  know  not  what  you  do  mean,  Edith,"  he 
replied.  "  You  almost  make  me  tremble  to 
see  you  look  and  speak  so  very  differently 
from  the  manner  that  is  natural  to  you." 

"  Humbly  born,  my  lord,"  again  repeated 
Edith,  as  though  she  heard  not  his  last  re 
mark,  "  so  humbly  born,  alas !  that  no  one 
knows  of  whom,  no  one  knows  when,  and  no 
one  knows  where  !" 

As  she  spoke  thus,  a  strange,  wild  and  al 
most  demoniac  fire  beamed  from  her  eyes.  It 
did  not  seem  possible  that  it  was  the  gentle, 
sensitive  and  loving  Edith  who  spoke,  but  she 
was  uttering  the  smouldering  agony  of  thought 
that  had  been  so  long  pent  up  and  so  closely 
confined  within  her  own  bosom.  The  secret 
of  her  life  had  been  uttered,  the  spell  was  brok 
en.  As  she  concluded,  she  had  risen  to  her  feet, 
and  stood  before  his  lordship  a  picture  of  ex 
traordinary  beauty  and  anguish,  for  beneath 
all,  there  was  visible  the  fearful  agony  of  the 
heart,  that  found  no  outward  vent  in  word  or 
action. 

"  Still,  Edith, "said  Lord  Amidown  warmly, 
"  I  love  you." 

"My  lord,  my  lord,"  she  said,  in  accents  al 
most  reproachful. 

"  I  speak  but  the  truth,  Edith,  when  I  say 
that  I  love  you  still." 

"  How  can  you  do  so  after  the  deception 
that  has  been  practised  in  relation  to  my  ori- 
gin?" 

".You  have  never  deceived  me  upon  that 
subject,"  he  replied  honestly. 

"  But  by  my  silence,  when  by  chance  'twas 
referred  to,  I  did  so  tacitly." 

"  Nay,  Edith,"  said  his  lordship,  in  his 
warmth  drawing  nearer  to  her,  and  once  more 
attempting  to  take  her  hand.  "  These  are 
objections  that  can  be  happily  gotten  over.  I 
trust  that — " 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  lord,"  said  Edith,  drawing 
back  as   though  there   was   pestilence  in  his  • 
touch,  now  that  she  had  spoken  thus.     "  Have 
a  care,  remember,  of  an  unknown  parentage, 
the  offspring,  perhaps,  even  of  infamy  !" 

"  0,  Edith,  Edith,"  he  exclaimed  in  tones  of 
agony,  at  her  words.  "  You  have  chilled  my 
very  life's  blood,  you  have  made  me  wretched, 
wretched  indeed." 

Lord  Amidown  covered  his  face  with  both 


his  hands  as  he  uttered  this  exclamation,  and 
sank,  like  one  comparatively  broken-hearted, 
into  a  chair.  With  the  last  words  of  Edith, 
her  true  position,  the  low  birth  of  her  he  had 
loved  so  well,  and  the  fearful  suspicion  that 
must  hang  over  her  forever,  all  seemed  to  burst 
upon  his  mind  at  a  single  glance.  How  could 
he  make  such  an  one  his  wife  ?  Would  not 
his  ancestors  rise  from  the  grave  and  curse 
him  for  thus  marring  the  splendor  of  their  es 
cutcheon  ?  Such  thoughts  as  these  rushed 
through  his  mind  with  the  anguish  they  cre 
ated. 

He  could  not  raise  his  eyes  to  her  face 
again ;  his  heart  ached  so  as  to  cause  a  chok 
ing  sensation  in  his  throat ;  he  felt  as  though 
death  at  such  a  moment  would  be  a  blessing 
and  a  relief.  His  brightest  hopes  for  the  fu 
ture  to  be  shared  with  her,  his  dream  of  love, 
his  picture  of  Edith  engraven  so  deeply  upon 
his  very  heart,  and  all  the  ties  that  so  dear  a 
relation  as  had  been  cultivated  between  them, 
by  his  more  than  usual  devotedness,  were  now 
all  rudely  dashed  to  earth,  each  tender  rela 
tion  was  severed  at  once,  all  was  a  blank  be 
fore  him ;  there  was  not  one  sunny  spot  left 
for  him  to  contemplate. 

Edith  gazed  at  his  anguish  with  a  no  less 
aching  heart,  and  a  swelling  bosom,  and  then 
turning  away  for  a  moment,  strove  to  hide  the 
big  tears  that  came  bursting  from  her  eyes. 

"  My  lord,"  she  almost  whispered,  as  though 
she  felt  that  she  had  no  right  even  to  address 
him  now. 

"  Edith." 

"Do  you  blame  me  that  I  have  spoken 
frankly,  though  with  so  much  pain  to  you  ?" 

"  Edith,  no,  you  have  done  nobly,  though 
you  have  destroyed  my  peace  of  mind  for 
life." 

"  O,  say  not  so,  my  lord  ;  look  in  your  own 
sphere  for  one  who  can  make  you  happy,  and 
no  one  will  pray  so  devotedly  for  your  enjoy 
ment  as  Edith,"  she  said,  still  averting  her 
face,  to  hide  the  tears  that  would  continue  to 
flow. 

"  Edith  !"  said  his  lordship,  in  a  tone  of  re 
proach  that  spoke  more  than  many  words 
might  have  done,  how  vain  it  would  be  for 
him  to  try  and  love  another  after  the  relation 
that  they  had  borne  to  each  other. 

"  Farewell,  my  lord,"  said  Edith,  in  an  an 
guish  of  grief,  "  farewell  forever !" 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


207 


"  Edith,  farewell !"  whispered  Lord  Ami- 
down  hoarsely,  and  in  a  moment  after  he  was 
in  the  open  air,  hurrying  as  though  for  life, 
though  he  knew  not  whither,  and  after,  he 
knew  not  what. 

The  secret  was  at  last  revealed,  and  Lord 
Amidown  knew  all.  The  first  part  of  the 
fortune-teller's  prediction  had  already  proved 
true.  He  recollected  this  fact  as  he  hurried 
along,  and  the  words  of  the  strange  woman 
recurred  to  him.  She  said,  '•  Your  own  pride 
shall  snap  the  silken  cord,"  but  did  she  not  also 
say,  thought  he,  that  those  hands  should  be 
joined  once  more  together  ?  But  alas  !  that 
can  never  be ;  she  may  have  chanced  upon 
the  first  prediction  rightly,  but  the  second  is 
beyond  possibility.  O,  God !  that  such  a 
blight,  such  a  withering  cloud,  should  hang 
over  one  like  Edith ;  one  whom  nature  hath 
formed  for  a  queen,  whom  cultivation  could 
hardly  improve,  so  perfect  and  so  beautiful  is 
she  by  nature,  and  whose  gentleness  would 
grace  the  fairest  lady  of  the  land.  Can  it  be 
that  such  an  one  is  the  child  of  infamy  ?  O, 
terrible  word  for  her  to  utter  to  me.  What  a 
dreadful  thought  to  contemplate. 

"  And  where  could  Sir  Robert  have  found 
this  fair,  this  too  beautiful  being,"  resumed 
Lord  Amidown,  "  and  what  possible  motives 
could  have  induced  him  to  deceive  me  and 
others  as  he  has  done  ?  There  is  some  singu 
lar  mystery  in  all  this,  a  strange  and  cruel 
business,"  he  continued.  "  I  must  see  Walter 
Manning  as  soon  as  possible,  that  I  may  be 
fully  corroborated  in  my  misery.  Perhaps  he 
can  explain  all  to  me." 

Hurrying  home  with  this  purpose  upon  his 
mind,  he  wrote  a  line  to  Walter,  requesting 
him  to  meet  him  that  night  at  a  certain  hour 
at  the  club,  and  dispatching  a  servant,  he 
waited  impatiently  his  return,  which  at  length 
brought  an  answer  in  which  Walter  agreed  to 
the  appointment. 

When  they  met  there  at  the  hour  designat 
ed,  Lord  Amidown  explained  the  state  of  his 
affairs  frankly  to  Walter.  He  made  secret  of 
no  portion  of  his  conduct,  his  feelings,  or  of 
what  Edith  had  divulged,  but  told  him  of  all 
that  had  taken  place,  repeating  even  Edith's 
very  words  that  had  chilled  him  so  terribly  at 
heart. 

"  Say,  Walter,"  continued  Lord  Amidown, 
in  tones  of  heart-broken  anguish,  "  is  all  this 


true  that  she  has  told  me  ?     Do  I  rightly  un 
derstand  this  unhappy  business  ?" 

Walter  hesitated  ;  it  was  a  subject  that  had 
never  been  referred  to  by  him  to  any  one,  and 
he  had  placed  a  seal  upon  his  lips  touching  the 
matter  on  all  occasions,  if  for  no  other  reason, 
for  Edith's  own  sake,  but  thus  appealed  to,  and 
the  subject  thus  brought  up,  he  could  hardly 
refuse  to  speak  out  frankly,  and  he  thought  it 
the  best  way  to  do  so. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said,  "  Edith  has  told  you 
most  frankly  and  truly  her  veritable  history. 
I  speak  knowingly,  for  I  was  with  Sir  Robert 
on  the  night*  that  he  rescued  her  from  one  of 
the  vilest  tap-rooms  in  St.  Giles.  It  was  not 
for  me  to  break  such  a  secret  to  you,  but  as 
Edith  has  seen  fit  to  do  so,  there  is  no  harm 
in  my  corroborating  her  words." 

"  Why  how  strange,  how  passing  strange  is 
all  this,  Walter.  Why  should  one  like  Sir 
Robert  seek  out  this  girl  and  from  such  a  place, 
to  adopt  her  as  his  child  ?" 

"For  her  extraordinary  beauty,"  replied 
Walter.  "  Even  at  thirteen,  my  lord,  Edith 
was  fairer  and  possessed  more  real  feminine 
beauty  that  I  ever  beheld  in  another.  And 
then,  Sir  Robert  said  she  greatly  re«embled 
a  lost  sister  of  his  own,  an  only  sister,  who 
died  early,  at  about  the  same  age  that  Edith 
then  was.  The  beauty  and  resemblance  at  / 
first  attracted  Sir  Robert,  but  her  sweetness  of 
character  afterwards  cemented  the  love  he  bore 
her.  There  was  a  time  when  she  was  stolen 
away  from  the  house  by  some  villains  who  had 
known  her  in  her  childhood  and  old  quarters, 
and  then  I  thought  that  Sir  Robert  would  have 
gone  mad.  He  rested  neither  day  nor  night 
in  his  assiduous  exertions  to  find  her  once 
more.  But  you  never  heard  of  her  abduction, 
I  suppose,  after  she  had  been  with  Sir  Robert 
some  twelve  months?" 

"  No.  I  know  scarcely  a  word  of  her  his 
tory  ;  indeed  I  knew  nothing  until  she  told  me 
to-day.  I  have  credited  the  story  that  was 
generally  believed,  as  to  her  humble  but  re 
spectable  birth." 

"  It  is  indeed  unfortunate.  I  have  myself 
foreseen  this  result;  but,  my  lord,  how  could  I 
speak  and  betray  the  secret  that  Sir  Robert  had 
almost  bound  me  by  an  oath  never  to  reveal  to 
any  one  ?" 

"  I  do  not  blame  you,"  said  Lord  Amidown, 
with  a  sad  despondency. 


208 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  Thank  you,  for  I  esteem  your  lordship's 
friendship  warmly,"  replied  Walter. 

"  But  what  of  Clara,  was  she  in  the  secret 
too  ?"  asked  his  lordship. 

"Ay,  more  than  that,  she  is  as  humbly 
born  as  Edith,  and  comes  ^rom  the  same  low 
sphere  of  life,"  answered  Walter. 

"Indeed?" 

« It  is  true." 

"  And  Walter,  excuse  me,  this  unhappiness 
must  be  my  excuse  for  speaking  so  plainly,  you 
lore  Clara  ?" 

"  My  lord,  yes." 

"  And  realize  fully  the  humble  character  of 
her  birth,  nay,  more  than  that,"  said  Lord 
Amidown  with  a  shudder,  "you  realize  the 
possibility  of  the  most  fearful  facts  as  to  her 
parentage  and  birth  ?" 

"  They  weigh  with  me  as  a  feather,  my 
lord,  when  I  look  upon  her  sweet  face,  and 
listen  to  the  intelligence  of  her  mind." 

"  Ah  !  Walter,  you  have  not  the  burthen  of 
rank,  station  and  blood  upon  your  shoulders  to 
weigh  you  down.  Were  I  to  forget  all  these 
things  and  blindly  pursue  the  love  that  prompts 
me,  I  should  become  ruined  in  the  eyes  of 
every  one.  Indeed  Walter,  could  I  respect 
myself  or  her  either,  if  she  were  my  wife 
even,  knowing  what  I  now  do  ?" 

"  You  speak  wisely,  no  doubt,  my  lord,  but 
if  Clara  would  be  my  wife,  I  would  lead  her  to 
the  altar  to-morrow." 


Lord  Amidown  made  no  reply  for  some  mo 
ments,  but  paced  the  little  ante-room  where 
they  had  met,  with  a  hurried  step.  Walter 
had  corroborated  all  that  Edith  had  told  him, 
the  whole  business  was  no  longer  a  problem, 
and  he  felt  that  there  was  no  hope  of  peace  or 
happiness  for  him  in  the  future.  A  feeling  of 
desperation  crept  over  him  of  dark  import. 

"  Of  course,  Walter,"  he  said,  at  length 
pausing  in  his  hurried  walk,  "  I  can  visit  Sir 
Robert's  no  more,  but  I  hope  that  I  may  some 
times  meet  with  you ;  come  to  me  at  home, 
you  shall  be  ever  welcome  and  1  shall  always 
remember  the  period  that  I  have  known  and 
passed  with  you  and  others  at  Sir  Robert's,  as 
the  happiest  of  my  life. 

"  Good  night,"  he  said  huskily,  as  he  press 
ed  Walter's  hand. 

"  Good  night,  my  lord;  if  I  can  serve  you  in 
any  way,  I  pray  you  command  me  always," 
said  Walter. 

As  they  parted,  Walter  himself  felt  scarcely 
less  miserable  than  Lord  Amidown,  both  on 
his  account  and  that  of  Edith.  He  realized 
keenly  the  unhappy  state  of  affairs,  but  though 
he  lacked  not  the  generous  impulse  that  would 
have  dictated  his  best  services  to  aid  or  allevi 
ate  either  of  the  parties,  yet  he  saw  at  once 
with  sorrow  how  utterly  powerless  he  was  in 
the  matter. 

"  It  does  seem  as  though  a  strange  fatality 
is  hanging  about  us  all,"  he  said,  to  himself. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 


THE    SECRET    DISCLOSED. 


A  secret- 
Most  astounding  ! 
And  confounding ! 


SOMNAMBULA. 


Sin  ROBERT  BROMPTON  was  so  much  en 
gaged  in  his  own  private  affairs  of  late,  that 
he  did  not  observe  for  some  weeks  that  Lord 
Amidown  had  entirely  absented  himself  from 
his  house.  It  is  true  he  had  missed  him,  but 
he  knew  that  his  lordship  was  sometimes  call 
ed  into  the  country  for  a  few  days,  to  visit 
and  oversee  his  large  estates,  and  presuming 
that  this  was  the  case  at  the  present  time,  he 
made  no  inquiry  for  him.  Edith,  who  had 
suffered  a  relapse  of  her  late  illness,  induced 
by  the  excitement  she  had  again  experienced, 
had  engaged  a  large  share  of  her  patron's 
thoughts.  But  she  was  better  once  more,  at 
least  physically,  and  Sir  Robert  again  sought 
the  solitude  of  his  study  with  a  pertinacity 
that  placed  all  conjecture,  as  to  the  cause,  at 
fault.  Understanding  his  character  fully, 
Walter  Manning,  although  he  observed  this 
singularity  of  conduct,  did  not  think  it  proper 
to  inquire  into  the  secret  annoyance  that  seem 
ed  to  be  making  little  less  than  a  complete 
slave  of  his  kind  patron. 

But  it  was  not  long  before  Sir  Robert  no 
ticed  more  particularly  the  absence  of  Lord 
Amidown.  At  first  he  said  nothing,  half  sus 
pecting  what  was  in  fact  the  true  state  of  the 
case,  but  watched  with  a  keen  eye  for  himself, 
the  state  of  feeling  that  came  under  his  obser 
vation.  At  length  one  day  he  drew  Walter 
14 


into  his  private  room,  and  after  exhibiting  the 
prominent  signs  of  a  man  under  the  strongest 
excitement,  he  paused  before  Walter  and  said  : 

"  Walter,  why  is  it  that  Lord  Amidown  has 
absented  himself  so  suddenly  from  this  house 
— can  you  tell  me  ?" 

"Sir  Robert,  nothing  could  induce  me  to 
deceive  you  in  anything— I  do'  know." 

"  Thank  you,  Walter.  I  knew  you  would 
unravel  the  business  for  me." 

"  Lord  Amidown  has  at  last  found  out  the 
facts  relating  to  Edith." 

"Who  could  have  told  him  that  story, 
known  only  to  ourselves  and  Edith?" 

"  She  told  him  herself,  Sir  Robert,  with  the 
most  honorable  purpose." 

"  Explain  to  me — tell  me  all,"  said  Sir  Rob 
ert,  throwing  himself  into  a  chair. 

Walter  then  related  in  detail  the  interview 
he  had  with  his  lordship  at  the  club,  and  every 
word  that  transpired  between  them,  as  nearly 
as  he  could  remember,  that  Sir  Robert  might 
exactly  understand  the  matter. 

"  Thank  you,  Walter ;  it  was  very  neces 
sary  that  1  should  know  all  this.  We  shall 
meet  again  this  evening." 

Walter  saw  that  he  would  be  alone,  and 
turning,  he  left  the  study. 

"  Stay,"  said  Sir  Robert,  calling  after  him. 
"  Walter — a  word  with  you." 


210 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  Well,  sir." 

"  Not  a  syllable  of  this  to  Edith,  you  un 
derstand,  of  course  ?'x 

"  Certainly,  Sir  Robert ;  it  is  a  subject  I 
should  not  be  very  apt  to  broach  to  her,  you 
may  be  assured." 

It  might  have  been  an  hour  after  this  inter 
view,  that  Sir  Robert  continued  to  walk  his 
room  in  a  state  of  great  excitement,  when 
Walter  at  last  heard  him  order  his  carriage, 
in  which  he  drove  away. 

Sir  Robert  told  the  servant,  who  put  up  the 
carriage  steps  and  closed  the  door  after  his  en 
trance,  to  drive  to  Lord  Amidown's.  It  was 
no  new  point  for  the  driver  to  direct  his 
horses  to,  and  soon  afterwards  the  carriage 
stopped  at  his  door.  Sir  Robert's  card  was  ans. 
wered,  and  he  found  himself  welcomed  in  the 
most  formal  manner  to  the  presence  of  his 
lordship. 

"  Doubtless,  my  lord,"  began  Sir  Robert,  so 
much  excited  that  his  voice  trembled,  "  you 
have  already  surmised  the  business  which  has 
brought  me  to  you  at  this  time." 

"  You  speak  very  confidently,  sir,  and  with 
no  little  warmth,"  said  Lord  Amidown,  cocl- 
ly. — «  As  to  the  matter  of  your  visit,  as  yet 
I  have  given  it  no  thought." 

"It  would  much  better  have  become  the 
character  that  I  had  supposed  your  lordship 
possessed  of,  had  you  done  so,"  continued  Sir 
Robert,  warmly. 

"  Will  you  be  seated,  sir  ?'* 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Sir  Robert,  waving  the 
courtesy,  and  continuing  to  stand. 

"  You  seem  to  be  very  much  irritated  and 
heated  about  some  matter,  Sir  Robert  Bromp- 
ton,"  said  Lord  Amidown,  with  provoking 
coolness,  as  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair. 

"  My  lord,"  continued  Sir  Robert,  "  you 
have  of  late  wholly  absented  yourself  from  my 
family  circle,  after  making  it  a  place  of  con 
stant  and  protracted  resort  for  a  period  of 
more  than  two  years." 

"  Well,  Sir  Robert,  because  I  have  seen  fit 
to  visit  your  house  for  the  period  of  time  men 
tioned,  am  1  bound  to  do  so  to  the  end  of  eter 
nity  ?"  asked  his  lordship,  somewhat  sharply. 

"  My  lord,  my  lord,  let  us  speak  to  the 
point  at  once.  1  can  see  no  good  to  be  deriv 
ed  from  a  bickering,  in  which  both  of  us  may 
lose  our  discretion." 


"  With  all  my  heart,  sir,  let  us  come  to  the 
point  at  once,"  was  the  reply. 

"  You  will  not  of  course  deny,  then,  my 
lord,  that  you  have  paid  marked  and  constant 
attention  to  Edith  for  nearly  a  twelve-month 
past,  during  which  time  the  strongest  intimacy 
has  existed  between  you." 

Lord  Amidown  turned  his  head  aside  to 
hide  the  anguish  that  the  bare  mention  of 
her  name  caused  in  his  heart,  for  though  he 
assumed  this  insulting  air  to  Sir  Robert,  he 
felt  no  hard  feeling  towards  Edith  ;  indeed  he 
loved  her  most  tenderly  still.  But  feeling  as 
he  did,  that  Sir  Robert  had  bitterly  deceived 
him,  he  felt  the  injury  keenly,  and  hence  his 
manner  towards  him. 

"  Well,  Sir  Robert,"  he  said,  at  last,  after 
more  than  a  minute's  pause. 

"  You  have  won  her  love  ;  the  entire  wealth 
of  her  young  and  pure  affection  is  yours.  In 
short,  she  is  a  woman,  and  loves  you,  my  lord 
— that  is  enough." 

"  Well,  Sir  Robert,"  continued  his  lordship, 
breathing  hard  and  fast. 

"  And  now,  my  lord,  after  having  made  her 
all  your  own,  heart  and  soul,  you  abruptly 
cast  her  oflfand  leave  her." 

"  Stay,  sir—" 

"  Ah  !  I  have  touched  you  at  last,  even 
through  all  that  stiff"  coat  of  indifference,"  said 
Sir  Robert,  sarcastically. 

"  Listen,  sir,"  said  his  lordship,  rising  to 
his  feet,  "  it  is  time  for  me  to  speak.  All  you 
have  said  is  true — ay,  and  more,  sir.  I  have 
loved  Edith  to  very  madness ;  I  have  gone  on 
from  day  to  day,  living  in  her  sweet  society, 
and  increasing  in  affection,  until  my  whole 
soul  has  been  involved  in  this  one  absorbing 
passion  for  her.  At  last,  emboldened  by  her 
kindness,  I  tell  her  my  love,  and  am  gently 
refused,  a  fact  that  only  adds  fuel  to  the  fire 
that  burns  within  me.  Still  I  respect  her 
wish  as  thus  signified,  until  in  an  unguarded 
moment,  captivated  by  her  dear  presence,  I 
gently  renew  my  suit  and  plead  at  her  very 
feet,  when  lo  !  I  am  told  such  things  by  her 
own  lips,  that  my  very  life  blood  is  chilled, 
and  I  find  how  blind,  how  deceived  I  have 
been  all  this  time.  Yet,  in  my  fond  and  al 
most  crazy  devotion,  I  still  believe  that  possi 
bly  there  may  be  some  mistake,  some  chance 
misconstruction,  or  perhaps  a  ruse,  and  I  call 
impatiently  for  other  evidence,  when  your 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


211 


adopted  son,  Sir  Robert,  sets  the  seal  to  my 
misery." 

There  was  a  few  moments'  pause  after 
these  remarks,  during  which  Lord  Amidown 
seemed  to  be  struggling  to  suppress  those 
tokens  of  feeling  and  regret,  that  to  another 
might  appear  as  womanly. 

"  But  that  dream  is  over  and  past  now,  Sir 
Robert,"  continued  his  lordship,  sadly ;  "  the 
deceit,  whether  intended  or  not  in  relation  to 
Edith's  birth,  has  been  successful  in  wrecking 
one  heart,  aud  I  do  not  hesitate  to  tell  you, 
sir,  that  so  completely  has  the  trick  succeeded, 
that  I  can  never  love  again,  for  I  have  no 
heart  to  offer  to  another  now — it  is  dead  and 
buried !  I  am  more  than  wretched.  Had 
that  girl  been  not  nobly,  nay,  nor  even  gently 
born,  but  only  respectably — " 

"  Hold,  my  lord  !"  exclaimed  Sir  Robert, 
starting  as  from  a  reverie,  and  struggling  with 
his  words  as  though  the  effort  were  like  to 
choke  him. 

"  I  say,  Sir  Robert,"  continued  Lord  Ami- 
down,  unheeding  the  interruption,  "  I  ask  not 
rank  nor  wealth  with  Edith,  for  had  she  only 
been  respectably  born,  and  that  fact  substantiat 
ed  beyond  a  doubt,  I  could  have  freely  forgiven 
all  in  my  fond  regard  for  her ;  but  to  have  the 
world  point  its  finger  of  scorn  at  my  wife,  is 
a  thought  too  fearful  to  contemplate,  could  the 
natural  repugnance  of  my  own  feelings  be 
stilled.  But,  alas  !  this  cannot  be,  and  I  but 
multiply  words  upon  a  painful  subject." 

"  My  lord,"  replied  Sir  Robert,  "  that  child 
is  as  gently  born  as  yourself — ay,  you  need 
not  stare  at  me,  and  gaze  with  a  frowning 
brow — I  am  not  crazy.  1  repeat  it,  she  is  of 
gentle  blood  and  an  honorable  offspring  !" 

"  Sir  Robert." 

"  Well,  my  lord." 

"  You  could  not  have  the  heart  in  this  di 
lemma  to  deceive  me  ;  to  fall  from  such  high 
hopes  again,  would  be  very  death." 

As  he  said  this,  he  approached  his  guest 
and  stood  with  a  most  imploring  look  upon 
his  face. 

"  Before  heaven,  I  repeat  that  Edith  is  as 
gently  and  honorably  born  as  yourself." 

"  The  proof,  Sir  Robert,  the  proof !"  said 
Lord  Amidown,  hurriedly. 

"Have  you  entire  reliance  upon  my  word, 
my  lord  ?"  asked  Sir  Robert,  who  seemed  to 
have  wrought  himself  up  to  a  state  of  calmness 


and  stern  self-possession  since  he  first  entered 
his  lordship's  apartment. 

"  Undoubtedly,  Sir  Robert,"  he  replied. — 
'Pray  proceed  with  your  explanation." 

"And,  of  course,  will  receive  unquestioned 
that  which  I  shall  disclose." 

"  Most  certainly." 

"  Then  know,  my  lord,  that  which  even 
Edith  herself  has  never  so  much  as  suspected 
for  one  moment,  since  she  has  known  me — she 
is  my  daughter  /'' 

"  In  wedlock  ?"  asked  Lord  Amidown,  seiz 
ing  eagerly  upon  Sir  Robert's  arm,  and  almost 
holding  his  breath  for  an  answer.  "  I  say,  in 
honest  wedlock  ?" 

"  She  is  the  child  of  my  honored  wife,  the 
lady  Gustine  !" 

"  Do  I  hear  aright,  Sir  Robert !"  exclaimed 
Lord  Amidown,  almost  bewildered  at  the 
thought  that  rushed  across  his  mind.  "  Am  I 
myself,  am  I  sane,  or  has  this  strange  disap 
pointment  made  me  mad  ?  Do  you  say  that 
Edith  is  your  daughter ;  really  and  truly  of 
your  own  blood  ?" 

"  She  is." 

"  Then  why  all  this  strange  mystery  about 
'her — this  rescuing  Edith  from  the  vile  haunt 
where  you  found  her,  and  how  came  she 
there  ?"  asked  Lord  Amidown,  with  rapid  ut 
terance.  "  What  does  this  mean,  Sir  Robert  ? 
I  feel  that  you  cannot  find  it  in  your  heart  to 
tamper  with  one  in  my  situation." 

"  Far  be  it  from  me,"  said  Sir  Robert, 
solemnly  ;  "  I  have  suffered  myself  too  much 
mental  agony  already,  from  a  fearful  mistake 
into  which  my  jealousy  of  disposition  has  led 
me.  It  may  be  that  you  will  have  a  right  to 
know  such  particulars  as  1  can  never  impart 
to  any  other,  save  yourself  and  Edith.  If  so, 
all  will  be  explained  to  you  in  due  time,  but  I 
trust  that  until  then  you  will  credit  my  word 
in  this  peculiar  matter." 

"  I  will,  I  will  indeed,"  said  his  lordship, 
eagerly,  "  and  I  bless  you  for  the  words  you 
have  spoken,"  he  continued,  turning  away 
his  face  to  hide  the  tears  that  wet  his  cheeks 
so  freely. 

Having  relieved  his  heart  of  this  strange 
secret,  that  had  eaten  like  a  rust  upon  his  very 
soul  for  so  long  a  period  of  time,  Sir  Robert 
seemed  to  be  as  much  relieved  as  one  suffer 
ing  by  a  fearful  plethora,  is  by  the  free-letting 
of  blood.  He  appeared  once  more  like  him- 


212 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


self,  and  looked  calmly  upon  Lord  Amidown 
now,  who,  in  turn,  was  walking  the  room, 
vainly  endeavoring  to  still  the  nervous  trepida 
tion  that  was  produced  by  the  revelation  he 
had  just  listened  to. 

"  Shall  we  go  to  her,  my  lord  ?"  asked  Sir 
Robert,  at  length. 

"  This  instant,"  replied  Lord  Amidown, 
with  avidity. 

"  My  carriage  is  at  the  door — let  us  go  to 
gether,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

"  Thank  you,  I  shall  embrace  the  oportuni- 
ty,"  he  replied,  "  but—" 

"  What,  my  lord  ?" 

"  I  have  not  yet  apologized  for  my  rudeness 
at  our  first  meeting." 

"  Name  it  not."  said  Sir  Robert,  "  it  was 
all  very  natural,  and  is  already  forgotten." 

In  this  amicable  mood,  the  two  entered  the 
vehicle  and  drove  to  Sir  Robert's  house.  As 
they  both  entered  the  reception  room,  they 
chanced  to  discover  Edith  alone  and  reading. 
Sir  Robert  had  intended  to  prepare  her  in 
some  way,  before  he  again  introduced  Lord 
Amidown  to  his  house,  but  circumstances  had 
forced  aside  this  purpose.  This  accidental, 
meeting  seemed  to  afford,  under  this  state  of 
things,  as  good  an  occasion  as  any  other. — 
But  Lord  Amidown's  impatience  put  aside  all 
calculation,  as  he  rushed  at  once  to  Edith's 
side  and  knelt  there,  overcome  by  his  feelings. 

"  What  means  this,  my  lord  ?"  asked  Edith, 
rising  from  her  seat  half  bewildered  at  his 
conduct,  and  Sir  Robert's  presence.  "  What 
am  I  to  understand  by  this  singular  behav 
iour?" 

it  was  a  most  trying  situation  for  all  who 
were  there  assembled. 

Lord  Amidown  looked  confusedly  from  one 
to  the  other,  while  Sir  Robert  seemed  unable 
to  speak  one  word,  but  sought  the  floor  with 
his  eyes,  and  there  the  three  stood  in  a  most 
embarrassed  situation.  The  truth  was,  Sir 
Robert  had  started  on  his  visit  to  Lord  Ami- 
down  without  pausing  to  think  as  to  what  it 
might  at  once 'lead.  He  was  not  prepared  to 
explain  in  so  abrupt  a  manner  a  subject  so  im 
portant,  but  there  was  no  choice  for  him  now, 
and  at  last  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  voice  that  was 
scarcely  above  a  whisper  : 
*  "  Lord  Amidown  has  been  informed  con 
cerning  your  birth  and  pa — " 


"  My  birth,  Sir  Robert?"  interrupted  Edith, 
with  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  Edith,"  he  continued,  though  not  a 
little  embarrassed,  "  he  has  been  informed,  I 
say,  touching  your  relationship  and — " 

"  Who  knows  aught  of  that,  Sir  Robert  ?" 
asked  Edith,  with  a  burning  cheek,  and  an 
earnestness  of  expression  that  made  Lord  Ami- 
down  almost  start  with  fear. 

"  I  have  been  hasty  and  thoughtless,"  he 
answered,  almost  trembling  as  he  saw  the  fire 
in  Edith's  eyes.  "  This  is  not  the  time  or 
place  for  an  explanation.  At  an  early  oppor 
tunity,  I  will  reveal  all  to  you." 

"  Sir  Robert,  my  kind  benefactor,  what  does 
all  this  mean  ?"  asked  Edith,  approaching  and 
laying  her  hand  on  her  patron's  arm.  "  There 
seems  to  be  some  strange  mystery  here — I 
cannot  understand  you." 

"  Sir  Robert,"  said  Lord  Amidown,  scarcely 
less  moved  than  he  whom  he  addressed,  "  why 
not  tell  our  dear  Edith  at  once,  and  make  her 
happy  ?" 

"  Not  now,  my  lord." 

"  Tell  me  what,  Lord  Amidown,  what  is 
this  secret  ?  O,  I  pray  you  relieve  my  mind. 
Is  it,  Sir  Robert,  relating  to  my  birth  and  pa 
rentage,  as  I  thought  that  I  understood  you? 
If  so,  break  the  spell,  and  I  will  bless  you." 

There  was  more  than  a  minute's  pause  at 
this  painful  juncture. 

"  Edith,  calm  yourself,"  said  her  patron,  at 
last;  "  the  subject  is  relating  to  your  birth; 
at  another  time,  I  may  explain  all,  but  for  the 
future — know  that  Sir  Robert  Brompton  is 
your  father !" 

For  a  moment,  the  beautiful  girl  cast  the 
natural  ringlets  that  clustered  about  her  head 
away  from  her  face,  and  shook  her  head  as  if 
to  relieve  it  from  some  sad  weight ;  the  blood 
left  her  cheeks,  which  became  as  pale  as  mar 
ble,  and  thus  she  gazed  on  vacancy,  but  her 
eyes  gave  back  no  reflection.  The  sight 
seemed  gone  altogether.  More  than  a  mo 
ment  passed  thus,  in  which  no  word  was  ut 
tered  by  either  of  the  party. 

"Edith!  Edith!"  said  Sir  Robert,  at 
length,  in  an  agony  of  suspense,  "speak  to 
me." 

But  there  was  no  answer — Edith  stood  like 
one  bereft  of  speech. 

Lord  Amidown  thought  she  would  faint, 
and  sprung  to  her  side  to  support  her,  but 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


213 


she  did  not  evince  any  token  that  his  support 
would  be  thus  required.  Suddenly  the  blood 
which  had  so  quickly  left  her  cheek,  returned 
again,  with  a  rushing  current  that  suffused 
her  whole  neck  and  face.  After  becoming  in 
some  degree  equalized,  it  once  more  left  her 
cheek ;  but  there  remained  a  far  more  brilliant 
color  than  had  ever  been  there  before,  while 
her  eyes  seemed  lighted  with  a  new  and  start 
ling  brilliancy.  A  long  sigh  escaped  her  lips, 
and  the  struggle  of  nature  seemed  to  be  over. 
An  expression  of  keen  disappointment 
overspread  Sir  Robert's  countenance.  He 
had  looked  to  see  her  fall  upon  his  neck  fond 
ly,  and  weeping  there,  rejoice  to  have  found 
in  him  a  father.  But  how  different  was  the 
scene  from  this  !  She  had  even  withdrawn 
from  his  side,  and  now  stood  quite  aloof  from 
him ;  a  strange  composure  of  manner  pervad 
ed  her  appearance,  and  a  calm  settled  smile 
took  possession  of  her  countenance,  while  a 
spirit  almost  of  indifference  seemed  to  beam 
from  her  eyes,  as  they  rested  now  upon  Sir 
.Robert,  who  was  regarding  her  most  intently. 

Turning  to  Lord  Amidown,  with  the  most 
serene  composure,  she  said  : 

"  My  lord,  it  seems  that  you  and  I  have 
been  misinformed,  touching  the  subject  matter 
of  our  last  interview.  It  is  pleasant,  very 
pleasant,  to  be  so  easily  helped  out  of  a  dilem 
ma  !" 

"  It  is  indeed  most  agreeable,"  said  Lord 
Amidown,  astonished  at  her  coolness,  and  at 
the  peculiar  expression  that  her  countenance 
had  assumed  while  she  spoke. 

Sir  Robert  stood  like  a  statue,  gazing  in 
amazement,  and  astounded  that  Edith  did  not 
even  speak  to  him  after  what  had  passed. 

"  At  a  more  fitting  time,  I  shall  be  pleased 
to  meet  your  lordship,"  she  continued,  with 
the  same  calmness  that  had  characterized  her 
manner  for  the  last  few  minutes.  "  At  pres 
ent  I  must  retire  to  my  room." 

As  she  said  this,  she  courtseyed  low  to  Lord 
Amidown,  and  without  even  so  much  as  look 
ing  at  Sir  Robert  at  all,  turned  and  walked 
quietly  out  of  the  room. 

"  She  did  not  even  speak  to  me,"  groaned 
Sir  Robert,  gazing  after  her. 

"  This  strange  news  is  too  much  for  her," 
answered  his  companion;  "she  will  require 
rest  and  many  tears  to  relieve  the  fulness  of 


her  heart.     In  the   meantime,    Sir   Robert,  I 
will  take  my  leave." 

"Your  lordship   must   make   yourself  at 
home  here,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied,  bowing  himself 
out,  as  he  did  so. 

Sir  Robert  was  now  once  more  alone.  The 
'owner  of  that  proud  mansion  stood  there  like 
a  statue  where  Edith  and  Lord  Amidown  had 
left  him ;  some  strange  fascination  seemed  to 
bind  him  with  irresistible  force  to  the  spot,  for 
he  did  not  move  even  one  single  step  from 
where  he  had  stood  when  he  revealed  that 
startling  secret  to  Edith.  He  now  looked  like 
one  whose  cup  of  misery  was  full  to  the  very 
brim,  his  eyes  still  rested  upon  the  door  where 
Edith  had  made  her  exit,  and  it  was  of  her 
that  he  was  thinking  so  intently.  He  pressed 
his  hands  upon  his  side,  and  breathed  deeply, 
but  as  though  the  effort  cost  him  no  little  pain, 
and  then  his  chin  sank  upon  his  breast,  like 
a  condemned  criminal;  a  sort  of  lethargy 
seemed  to  creep  over  him,  but  in  a  moment 
after  he  aroused  himself  from  this  mood,  and 
asked  himself: 

"  Is  it  possible  that  I  have  at  last  revealed 
this  terrible,  burning  secret,  and  does  Edith 
receive  it  unmoved,  she  whom  I  have  loved 
so  deeply,  so  tenderly,  she  who  has  seemed  to 
reciprocate  every  thought  of  my  heart  ?  Have 
all  my  hopes  been  thus  blighted  in  one  single 
instant?  has  the  cunningly  laid  plot  of  years 
been  thus  terminated  ?  She  left  me  but  now, 
without  uttering  one  single  word,  nay,  she  did 
not  so  much  as  look  at  me  when  she  turned 
away.  O,  Edith,  Edith  !  is  this  the  repay 
ment  of  my  fond  and  doting  affection  ?  am  I 
to  be  thus  regarded  for  all  my  sufferings  in 
your  behalf?  my  heart  will  break  if  it  findeth 
not  relief.  1  doubt  me  but  1  am  dreaming, 
the  annoyance  of  that  cursed  fortune-teller 
has  half  turned  my  brain — this  cannot  be  so ;" 
and  as  he  reasoned  thus,  he  looked  hurriedly 
about  him  fora  moment,  and  then  continued  : 

"  No,  no,  it  is  no  dream,"  he  almost  groan 
ed  out;  "  it  is  a  stern  and  vivid  reality." 

Sir  Robert  threw  himself  heavily  into  a 
seat,  and  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands, 
leaned  upon  the  table  by  his  side,  a  picture  of 
wretchedness  and  disappointment.  The  main 
hope  and  prop  of  his  life  seemed  crushed,  and 
the  expression  of  his  face  showed  how  keenly 
he  realized  his  misery. 


214 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


After  remaining  thus  for  a  little  while,  he 
rose  to'his  feet,  and  walked  the  room  hurried- 
edly,  talking  all  the  while  almost  incoherently, 
while  his  grief,  which  found  no  vent  in  tears, 
seemed  to  make  him  almost  beside  himself. 
He  paused  now,  and  with  an  effort  at  calm 
ness,  asked  himself  deliberately  : 

"  Have  the  nicely  laid  plans  of  nearly  a 
score  of  years  been  thus  frustrated  in  one  sin 
gle  moment  ?  Has  the  hour  to  which  I  have 
so  long  confidently  looked  forward  with  the 
brightest  hope  and  dearest  expectation,  at  last 
arrived  but  only  to  curse  me  ?  What  have  I 
to  live  for  now  ?  what  charm  will  life  have 
for  me,  bereft  of  that  child's  love  ?  O,  how 
sadly  I  have  mistaken  her  heart,  how  poorly 
have  I  read  her  disposition.  But  let  me  pause ; 
perhaps  it  was  excitement — perhaps  she  will 
yet  return  to  smile  upon  and  kiss  me  again 
with  her  heart  beaming  from  her  eyes.  I 
may  have  done  her  injustice^  It  came  sud 
denly  upon  her,  she  was  unprepared,  and  that 
is  the  reason  of  her  singular  behaviour." 

Scarcely  had  Sir  Robert  made  this  remark 
when  the  door  opened,  arid  Edith  entered 
hurriedly,  and  approaching  him  with  a  strange 
expression  in  her  face,  said  ; 

"  Are  you  my  father  ?" 

"  Edith  ?" 

"  Are  you  my  father?" 

"I  have  already  spoken  to  you  on  that 
subject,  Edith,"  he  answered,  soothingly. 

Startled  at  the  singular  abruptness  of  the 
question,  and  the  manner  in  which  she  had 
addressed  him,  Sir  Robert  stood  gazing  upon 
her  in  amazement.  It  was  too  evident,  and 
he  soon  fully  realized  the  fact  that  reason  was 
tottering  on  her  throne,  and  that  Edith  was 
mentally  deranged  already. 

"If  you  are  my  father,  then  why  don't  you 
say  so?"  she  continued,  with  singular  earnest 
ness,  and  approaching  close  to  Sir  Robert's 
side,  she  looked  up  into  his  face  with  such  va 
cant  eyes  that  he  shuddered. 

"  Edith,  Edith,  you  are  ill,  and  need  re 
pose,"  said  Sir  Robert,  as  he  watched  the 
changing  expression  of  her  eyes,  now  bent 
upon  him  with  a  wild,  glaring  lustre. 

Then  again  she  seemed  to  become  more 
subdued  and  calm,  as  she  said  : 

"  If  you  are  my  father,  it  is  very  unkind 
in  you  not  to  have  told  me  so  before.  It 
would  have  saved  me  much  misery,  much 


misery,"     sse  repeated,    shaking    her    head 
sadly. 

"I  will  explain  all  to  you  at  another  time," 
answered  Sir  Robert,  soothingly,  as  he  averted 
his  face  to  hide  the  agony  that  her  vacant  and 
listless  air  produced  upon  him. 

"  But  where  is  my  mother  ?"  she  asked, 
with  a  startled  energy,  as  the  thought  came 
over  her  suddenly. 

"  In  heaven,  I  trust,  Edith." 

"  Heaven  ?  Is  that  a  long  way  from  here  ?" 
she  asked,  vacantly. 

"  I  cannot  bear  this  any  longer,"  he  ex 
claimed,  in  agony. 

Ringing  the  bell,  Sir  Robert  sent  a  servant 
in  all  haste  for  Clara,  who  soon  after  answer 
ed  the  summons,  and  to  whom  Sir  Robert 
whispered  that  she  should  observe  Edith 
closely,  as  she  was  evidently  quite  ill,  wander 
ing  in  her  mind,  and  if  possible,  he  desired 
her  to  urge  her  to  retire  and  sleep. 

"  Clara,"  said  Edith,  interrupting  him, 
"  this  is  my  father,  you  did  not  know  that, 
but  it  is  true  ;  he  has  told  me  so  himself.  It 
is  odd,  though,  isn't  it,  Clara  ?" 

Sir  Robert  whispered  to  Clara,  saying  that 
she  must  not  heed  her  words  at  all,  and  that   * 
he   would  himself  explain   all  to   her  at   a 
proper  time. 

"  Come,  Edith,  come,"  said  Clara,  sooth 
ingly,  putting  her  arms  about  her  waist. 
"  Let  us  go  to  our  chamber  for  a  while. 
Wont  you  go  to  please  me,  Edith  ?" 

"O,  yes." 

"  Well,  come,  then — I  am  going." 

"  And  leave  him  ?"  she  asked,  pointing  ra- 
cantly  at  Sir  Robert. 

"  Yes,  for  a  little  while — come." 

"  But  speak  to  him,  first,  Clara — congratu 
late  him  on  having  me  for  a  daughter.  Wont 
you  ?"  she  continued,  as  she  held  back  from 
leaving  the  room,  and  motioned  Clara  towards 
Sir  Robert. 

"  Alas,  alas,  what  a  sad  business  this  is," 
said  Clara,  looking  at  her  patron.  "  What 
can  ail  poor  Edith  ?" 

"  Never  mind  about  the  cause,  now,  Clara ; 
but  try  and  get  her  to  her  chamber." 

Clara  was  confused,  she  knew  as  yet  noth 
ing  of  the  fact,  and  though  she  strove  to  obey 
Sir  Robert's  wishes,  as  to  soothing  Edith,  yet 
she  was  blind  as  to  the  cause  of  this  unhappy 
scene. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


215 


"  I  left  her  so  well  but  a  few  moments 
since,"  said  she,  sadly. 

"  Take  her  away,  take  her  away  as  quickly* 
as  you  can,"  said  Sir  Robert,  earnestly.  "  I 
will  explain  it  all  to  you  at  another  time, 
Clara.  She  will  go  with  you  now." 

"  Come,  Edith,  dear,  come  with  me  to  our 
chamber,  will  you  I" 

"  O,  yes,  Clara,"  she  replied,  leaning  upon 
her  companion  as  she  went. 

But  she  paused  again  ere  they  passed  out 
side  the  door,  and  looked  back  at  Sir  Robert, 
while  her  brain  seemed  to  be  striving  to  mas 
ter  and  express  some  thought  that  was  but 
half  formed  from  mental  weakness ;  but  she 
could  only  shake  her  head  sadly  without  ut 
tering  any  coherent  syllables.  She  muttered 
something  to  herself  that  Clara  strove  in  vain 
to  understand,  but  all  seemed  to  be  rather  the 
action  of  a  diseased  brain  than  of  any  definite 
ideas.  Clara  regarded  her  with  a  feeling  of 
awe,  so  mysterious  was  all  this,  too,  as  it  re 
garded  its  true  import ;  but  she  gently  soothed 
her,  and  urged  her  with  persuasive  speech  to 
come  to  her  chamber.  At  last  she  turned  to 
her,  and  asked  in  reply  to  Clara's  solicitation 
for  her  to  come  with  her  to  their  chamber : 

"  What  for  ?" 

"  So  that  we  may  be  quiet,  Edith,  so  we 
may  lie  down  and  sleep." 


"  Sleep,  what  is  that?"  she  asked,  vacantly. 

"  To  go  to  bed,  Edith,  and  close  the  eyes  in 
forgetfulness,  and  to  wake  refreshed." 

"  Forgetfulness !  that  is  good,  forgetfulness 
is  very  good.  I  wish  I  could  forget." 

"  Well,  come,  Edith,  we  will  go  and  try  to 
forget,"  said  her  companion,  urging  her  away. 

But  Clara  was  striving  with  a  heavy  heart. 
She  felt  that  there  was  something  sadly  wrong 
in  this  business,  and  her  love  for  Edith  ren 
dered  her  doubly  anxious,  for  she  could  gladly 
have  taken  any  pains  to  have  saved  her  friend 
from  the  infliction. 

In  the  meantime,  while  this  scene  was  going 
on  between  Edith  and  Clara,  Sir  Robert  stood 
in  an  agony  of  suspense,  because  she  was  not 
removed  from  the  apartment,  until  at  last  she 
sank  her  head  upon  Clara's  shoulder,  and  qui 
etly  passed  without  the  door  of  the  reception 
room. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  us  to  explain 
fully  the  anguish  that  tore  Sir  Robert's  heart 
at  the  scene  which  we  have  just  described. 
Poor  Edith  seemed  to  have  lost  her  senses  en 
tirely,  and  Sir  Robert  his  peace  of  mind  for 
ever.  This  business  was  evidently  the  crisis  • 
of. his  life,  but  to  explain  fully  how  this 
strange  state  of  affairs  came  about,  and  to 
show  why  Sir  Robert  reproached  himself  so 
keenly,  we  must  refer  the  reader  to  another 
chapter. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 


A    STRANGE    PLOT. 


"  Evil  ends  peep  out  o'  the  tail  of  good  purposes." 


IT  has  not  before  been  mentioned  in  the 
plot  of  our  story  that  the  lady  Gustine  bore 
Sir  Robert  a  child,  a  lovely  infant,  and  in  all 
of  his  jealous  moods,  the  father  seemed  to 
turn  back  in  his  heart  to  this  offspring,  in 
whom  he  hoped  to  find  one  eventually  who 
should  love  him  truly,  and  upon  whose  affec 
tion  there  should  be  no  blight.  It  grew  with 
the  father  to  be  the  one  engrossing  wish  and 
hope  of  his  life,  and  he  looked  forward  to  the 
consummation  of  the  picture  of  his  fancy, 
much  as  the  weary  mariner  doth  look  forward 
to  the  peace  of  his  fire-side  after  a  long  and 
tempestuous  voyage. 

The  reader  will  remember  that  a  spirit  of 
jealousy  was  Sir  Robert's  evil  genius,  that  he 
was  often  completely  under  its  control,  and 
made  most  wretched  by  it.  He  seemed  to 
think  that  no  one  could  respect  or  love  him, 
except  from  interested  motives,  and  then  they 
would  but  assume  these  traits.  This  was  at 
first  induced  by  his  lameness,  solely,  but  it 
was  also  much  augmented  by  the  state  in 
which  the  small  pox  had  left  his  face  after  his 
sickness  in  India,  and  even  to  this  date  in  our 
story,  he  felt  acutely  the  personal  defects 
which  marred  his  manliness.  While  Sir 
Robert  was  abroad,  it  will  be  remembered  that 
his  wife  died,  leaving  her  child  scarcely 
more  than  an  infant,  much  too  young  to  have 


any  fixed  idea  of  home,  to  the  care  of  stran. 
gers. 

When  Sir  Robert  heard  of  the  mother's 
death,  he  at  once  despatched  his  trusty  com 
panion  and  friend,  Frederick  Howard,  to 
manage  his  affairs  in  London — and  that  por 
tion  of  his  instructions  relating  to  the  child, 
were  by  no  means  of  the  least  important 
character.  To  this  friend  of  his,  it  will  be 
remembered  that  Sir  Robert  had  fully  opened 
his  heart,  and  his  companion  knew  his  pa 
tron's  disposition  far  better  and  more  correct 
ly  than  did  Sir  Robert  himself.  His  patron 
had  often  expressed  to  him  the  fear  that  his 
daughter  would  grow  up  to  think  of  him  as 
her  father,  and  therefore  as  one  who  must  be 
loved  as  such  a  relationship  demanded,  but  as 
to  her  loving  him  for  himself  alone,  his  jeal 
ous  disposition  seemed  too  stubborn  to  admit 
of  such  a  possibility.  Sir  Robert  would  say : 

"  Every  hour  of  our  association  will  be 
embittered  by  doubt,  for  am'I  not  most  hide 
ous  to  behold?" 

"Indeed  no,  Sir  Robert." 

"  Perhaps  not  to  one  who  reasons  and 
thinks  like  you,  but  to  one  of  the  other  sex, 
it  is  quite  different,"  Sir  Robert  would  say ; 
"  the  eye  must  be  pleased,  believe  me,  before 
the  heart  is  moved.1' 

"But  sympathy   and  kindness  will  clothe 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


217 


any  form  with  beauty,  so  far  as  the  eye  of 
those  who  are  influenced  is  concerned ;  defor 
mity  is  robbed  of  its  power  by  love." 

"  This  is  subtle  reasoning,  and  rather  un 
like  your  usual  creed,"  Sir  Robert  would  say; 
"  for  I  have  been  more  confirmed  in  my  belief 
of  the  sordid  selfishness  of  the  world  since 
we  have  been  together,  than  ever  before." 

"  Touching  this  matter  of  your  daughter, 
Sir  Robert,  I  think  you  carry  the  principle  too 
far — ties  of  blood  are  very  strong,  and  we  do 
not  often  see  them  desecrated  and  entirely 
disregarded." 

"  Perhaps  not,  nor  do  you  often  see  such  a 
looking  object  as  I  am,  to  tempt  a  breach  of 
all  principles  of  humanity  and  nature  between 
a  child  and  its  parent." 

"Nay,  Sir  Robert,"  his  friend  would  an 
swer,  "  I  assure  you  that  your  disposition  has 
gotten  the  better  of  your  judgment,  and  your 
fancy  magnifies  trifles  into  matters  of  grave 
import." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  if  you  could  rightly  un 
derstand  me,"  said  Sir  Robert,  "  I  think  you 
would  not  wonder  at  my  feelings.  For  years 
I  have  longed  to  be  loved  for  myself  alone. 
In  the  lady  Gustine  I  thought  I  had  found  a 
being  to  love  and  cherish,  but  somehow  the 
foul  fiend  separated  our  hearts.  Now  there 
seems  to  be  a  faint  glimmering  of  hope  in 
my  daughter,  if  she  should  live,  but  still  my 
foreboding  soul  tells  me  the  result  will  be 
disastrous  to  my  peace  and  happiness.  If  we 
were  in  a  more  humble  sphere  of  life,  if  she 
did  not  know  herself  born  to  a  fortune,  per 
haps  it  would  not  be  quite  so  certain  that  she 
would  love  the  world  and  not  me." 

"  Feeling  thus,  Sir  Robert,  you  can  never 
love  her  yourself  as  you  should  do.  You 
start  with  her  at  disadvantage,  by  being  jeal 
ous  of  her  before  she  is  capable  of  evincing 
any  great  degree  of  love  or  dislike." 

"  I  realize  it  all,  and  dread  the  inevitable 
result.  Ah  f  I  would  love  her  so  dearly  as 
she  grew  up  by  my  side,  if  only  assured  that 
she  loved  me  in  return  with  such  a  love  as  1 
long  to  share." 

"I  must  say,  frankly,  Sir  Robert,  that  I 
fear  your  jealousy  of  disposition  is  not  suffi 
ciently  under  control ;  but  if  it  is  too  power 
ful  for  you  to  combat  with  reason,  we  must 
accommodate  ourselves  to  circumstances." 

"  We  must  hope  for  the  best,  and  leave  the 


result  to  fortune,"  replied  Sir  Robert,  thought 
fully. 

The  reason  why  we  wish  to  impress  the 
actuating  motives  of  Sir  Robert  strongly  upon 
the  minds  of  the  reader  is,  because  they 
were  the  prime  moving  cause  of  the  most 
vivid  scenes  of  his  life,  and  the  origin  or 
mainspring  as  it  regards  the  plot  of  our  sto 
ry,  which  finds  its  rise  in  the  jealousy  of  Sir 
Robert's  character.  It  will  be  seen  ere  the 
close  of  the  present  chapter  to  what  blind  ex 
tremes  it  led  him  on. 

Frederick  Howard,  who  was  of  a  somewhat 
misanthropic  disposition,  could  fully  appreci 
ate  and  sympathize  in  his  patron's  feelings, 
and  of  course  this  fact  led  Sir  Robert  to  feel  a 
warm  and  constant  interest  in  him  through  a 
spirit  of  sympathy  alone,  though  his  com 
panion's  power  of  mind  and  natural  good 
taste  caused  Sir  Robert  to  realize  much  satis 
faction  in  his  society.  Indeed  his  patron  had 
given  so  many  tokens  of  his  confidence  and 
reliance  in  him,  that  his  companion  was  em 
boldened  to  ask  of  Sir  Robert  perhaps  the 
most  peculiar  and  trying  boon  that  he  could 
possibly  have  devised.  It  was  relating  to  his 
daughter,  whom  Mr.  Howard  was  about  to 
visit  in  the  character  of  a  protector,  until  such 
a  time  as  Sir  Robert  should  have  arranged  his 
affairs  and  returned  himself  to  England. 

When  his  agent  was  about  to  leave  him  at 
Calcutta,  he  asked  for  permission  to  take 
charge  of  Sir  Robert's  child,  and  to  direct 
her  taste  and  mind  after  his  own  judgment, 
at  least  until  he  should  himself  return.  He 
argued  with  Sir  Robert,  that  after  having  been 
so  long  associated  with  him  and  so  intimately 
understanding  the  relative  position  of  matters, 
as  well  as  knowing  Sir  Robert's  one  weak 
point,  that  if  permitted  to  adopt  his  own  plan, 
he  could  so  direct  and  influence  the  child  as 
to  obviate  the  possibility  of  every  trouble  that 
his  patron  had  anticipated  might  spring  up  to 
mar  his  domestic  happiness,  and  so  direct  and 
instruct  the  child  that  she  should  love  him,  not 
because  it  was  her  duty  to  do  so  only,  but 
truly  for  himself. 

Being  so  intimately  connected  with  his 
agent,  by  so  many  reasons  as  we  have  shown, 
Sir  Robert  was  induced  to  give  him  one  more 
proof  of  his  undiminished  confidence  by  en 
trusting  his  child  to  his  care,  and  with  few 
qualifications,  Sir  Robert  cheerfully  consented 


213 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


to  the  plan  proposed  by  his  companion,  and 
Mr.  Howard  departed  with  a  carte  blanche 
over  Sir  Robert's  entire  domestic  concerns,  as 
well  as  to  assume  the  control  of  his  business 
matters.  Time  brought  him  to  London, 
where  by  virtue  of  his  authority,  he  assumed 
immediate  and  sole  control  over  the  family 
of  Sir  Robert's  household,  and  prepared  to 
put  into  execution  a  plan  which  could  only 
have  found  birth  in  a  misanthropic  brain, 
though  its  ultimate  object  and  honest  intent 
was  solely  to  aid  his  friend's  future  happiness 
in  relation  to  his  child. 

His  first  step  was  to  pay  off  the  servants 
and  dismiss  them,  then  to  change  the  nurse 
who  had  so  long  had  charge  of  the  child,  for 
one  better  suited  to  his  purpose.  Having  by 
degrees  arranged  these  and  other  matters  of  a 
similar  character  to  suit  himself,  he  gave  out 
that  the  child  was  to  be  shipped  to  Sir  Robert 
at  Calcutta,  as  he  designed  to  stay  for  some 
years  in  India.  However  strange  might  have 
appeared  to  many  the  idea  of  sending  so 
young  a  child  on  such  au  errand,  there  were 
none  who  felt  authorized  to  dispute  Mr.  How 
ard's  unlimited  authority,  more  especially  as 
he  had  taken  very  good  care  to  establish  its 
legal  character  by  means  of  the  paper  which 
his  patron  had  supplied  him  with,  to  guard 
against  contingencies. 

The  lady  Gustine  had  few  blood  relations, 
and  those  were  far  away  on  the  banks  of  the 
Rhine.  Her  father  had  died  not  long  after 
his  daughter's  marriage,  and  thus  there  were 
few,  if  any,  on  her  side,  to  feel  any  great  in 
terest  in  the  child.  As  to  Sir  Robert's  family, 
we  have  already  said  that  he  had  no  near  re 
lations  living,  and  thus  situated,  it  was  not 
strange  that  Mr.  Howard  found  few,  if  any, 
to  question  his  authority,  even  as  it  related  to 
Sir  Robert's  most  private  concerns,  and  more 
particularly  as  it  regarded  the  disposal  of  his 
daughter  on  a  voyage  to  India  to  meet  her 
father. 

"  I  heard  the  child  was  goin'  to  sea,  and  I 
cum  to  say  good-by  to  her,"  said  her  late 
nurse.  "  It's  a  shame,  so  it  is,  to  make  a  little 
thing  like  her  go  so  long  a  voyage." 

"  O,  but  it  is  to  meet  her  father ,  you  know, 
my  good  woman,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,  its  the  only  excuse  in  the 
world,  so  it  is,  for  such  a  thing." 


"When  she  comes  back  a  fine  lady,  she 
will  be  so  altered,  you'll  not  know  her." 

"  I'll  be  in  my  grave  before  that  time — but 
good-by,  my  little  pet ;"  as  she  said  this,  the 
woman  kissed  the  child,  and  shed  a  flood  of 
honest  tears  at  parting  with  her,  after  some 
two  years  of  constant  attendance  upon  her 
simplest  wants. 

The  child  cried,  too,  for  a  moment,  but  as 
soon  as  the  nurse  was  gone,  it  was  laughing 
again. 

By  a  well  concerted  plan,  it  was  made  to 
appear  that  the  child  was  shipped  from  Liver 
pool  for  Calcutta,  with  a  hired  nurse,  but  on 
the  next  day  after  the  departure  was  supposed 
to  have  taken  place,  Frederick  Howard  placed 
in  charge  of  an  elderly  and  very  humble  wo 
man,  who  lived  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  a 
little  girl  of  some  three  years  of  age,  declaring 
that  it  was  an  illegitimate  offspring,  and  that 
he  desired  her  to  take  good  care  of  it,  allow 
ing  it  to  want  for  no  necessity,  for  which  she 
should  be  regularly  and  fairly  remunerated  by 
him.  The  instructions  she  received  were  of 
the  most  minute  character.  The  child  was  to  be 
treated  with  the  utmost  kindness,  and  to  have 
all  necessary  food,  but  to  share  everything 
with  the  woman,  who  must  pretend  to  be  her 
friend  and  sole  protector.  Above  all  things, 
no  luxury  was  to  be  provided  for  the  child, 
and  the  utmost  secrecy  was  enjoined  upon  the 
woman,  for  whom  it  was  made  an  object  to 
keep  most  sacred  the  secret  imparted  to  her. 

Having  arranged  this  matter  with  an  inge 
nuity  and  care  that  was  worthy  of  a  better 
cause,  so  that  all  trace  of  the  little  child  was 
lost  to  her  friends,  save  that  she  was  presum 
ed  to  have  been  shipped  as  represented  to 
meet  her  father  abroad,  Mr.  Howard  then 
wrote  to  Sir  Robert  to  explain  to  him  in  full 
the  plan  which  he  had  adopted  for  his  child, 
and  which  he  felt  the  utmost  confidence  would 
be  attended  with  the  happiest  result.  So  well 
did  he  depict  this  plan  in  his  letter,  and  so 
adroitly  did  he  calculate  the  true  manner  in 
which  to  operate  upon  Sir  Robert,  that  al 
though  his  patron  was  shocked  at  first  by  its 
relation,  yet  after  reading  the  letter  again  and 
again,  he  became  reconciled  to,  and  even  ap 
proved  of,  the  strange4  plan.  Sir  Robert  would 
never  have  originated  such  a  plan  as  his  agent 
had  arranged,  but  now  that  it  was  once  practi 
cally  adopted,  the  peculiar  feeling  to  which 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


219 


his  agent  had  appealed  in  his  letter,  bade  him 
to  acquiesce,  though  reluctantly. 

"God  grant  that  I  do  no  unnatural,  or  un 
just  thing  in  my  condfict  to  that  child  !"  said 
Sir  Robert,  as  he  sealed  up  the  letter  in  which 
he  signified  his  approval  of  his  agent's  plan, 
and  dispatched  it  for  England. 

His  agent  had  acted  honestly  on  his  part, 
and  had  stated  to  him  exactly  the  truth.  He 
told  Sir  Robert  that  the  child  was  placed  with 
a  very  humble,  but  respectable  woman,  who 
knew  nothing  of  its  origin,  but  believed  it  to 
be  an  illegitimate  child.  That  means  had 
been  so  taken  and  consummated  that  it  was 
impossible  for  her  to  ascertain  aught  concern 
ing  her  charge,  and  that  all  his  friends  be 
lieved  the  child  to  have  been  shipped  to  him 
at  Calcutta.  That  the  woman  who  had  charge 
of  her  would  be  strictly  observed  by  him,  and 
that  she  had  been  most  carefully  directed  as  to 
her  kind  treatment  of  the  little  boarder,  who 
was  to  have  every  necessity  and  ordinary 
comfort,  but  no  luxuries  lavished  upon  her. 

So  much  related  to  the  present  condition  of 
the  child,  the  future  plan  he  laid  down  thus  : 
She  was  to  remain  for  a  period  of  years  in  this 
condition  of  life,  or  at  least  until  she  should 
become  old  enough  to  realize  her  situation, 
when  Sir  Robert  should  manage,  as  if  by  ac 
cident,  to  meet  and  befriend  her,  winning  her 
confidence  and  love  by  his  kindness,  which 
the  child,  having  no  claim  upon  him  for,  would 
the  more  highly  prize.  Having  won  its  heart 
thus,  he  should  draw  her  still  nearer  to  him 
by  adoption,  and  finally,  when  all  doubt  as  to 
her  real  regard  for  him  should  be  removed, 
and  at  a  suitable  period,  the  true  relationship 
should  be  acknowledged.  But,  on  the  con 
trary,  if  it  was  found  that  she  was  likely  to 


realize  those  doubts  and  fears  that  Sir  Robert's 
jealousy  had  suggested,  then  let  the  secret  re 
main,  and  the  child  be  treated  as  she  deserv 
ed. 

As  we  have  before  said,  none  but  a  most 
misanthropic  soul  could  have  originated  such 
a  plan;  but  such  power  had  Frederick  Howard 
gained  over  Sir  Robert,  and  so  shrewdly  did 
he  manage  his  correspondence,  that  his  patron 
was  nevertheless  persuaded  into  its  adoption, 
though  somewhat  reluctantly.  Several  mat 
ters  seemed  strangely  enough  in  their  relation 
to  the  affair,  to  favor  the  purpose  that  had  been 
adopted,  one  of  these  being  the  fact  that  tlJe 
vessel  in  which  the  child  was  supposed  to 
have  sailed,  was  cast  away  at  sea,  and  every 
soul  on  board  perished.  Mr.  Howard  took 
good  care  to  have  this  fact  properly  trumpeted, 
in  order  to  add  to  the  greater  security  of  his 
plan.  This  fact  alone,  well  managed,  was  suf 
ficient  to  guard  against  almost  any  contingen 
cy  as  it  regarded  a  discovery. 

"  The  loss  of  that  child  must  be  a  sad  blow 
to  Sir  Robert,"  said  one  of  his  friends  to  the 
agent. 

"  Ay,  most  sad." 

"  It  being  the  very  last  representative  of  his 
long  line  of  ancestors,  and  a  most  beautiful 
child  too." 

"  Nothing  could  be  more  unfortunate,"  re 
plied  the  agent,  with  well  affected  sorrow ; 
"  but  Sir  Robert  would  not  consent  to  be  any 
longer  separated  from  it,  and  so,  in  accordance 
with  his  instructions,  the  child  was  shipped 
for  Calcutta." 

Let  the  progress  of  the  story  show  the  result 
of  all  this  intrigue,  cunning  and  deception,  re 
lating  to  the  child. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 


THE    RESULT    OF    THE    SCHEME. 

— "  And  thou — 0,  them  didst  throw 
That  crushed  affection  back  upon  my  heart." 


SIR  ROBERT  BROMPTON,  enjoying  all  the 
regal  comforts  of  East  Indian  life,  was  not  al 
together  content  as  it  regarded  the  situation  of 
matters  at  home.  His  busy  fancy  would 
often  draw  before  his  mind's  eye  such  pic 
tures  of  his  child  as  would  render  him  exceed 
ingly  uncomfortable  and  discontented.  He 
often  detected  himself  drawing  comparisons 
between  the  manner  of  life  which  he  led  him 
self,  and  the  probable  way  in  which  his  child 
was  then  living.  It  was  such  thoughts  as 
these  that  troubled  him  so  much,  and  that 
rendered  him  at  times  quite  dissatisfied  both 
with  Mr.  Howard  and  himself. 

More  than  once,  Sir  Robert  had  written  to 
his  agent  to  see  the  child  often,  and  to  make 
it  his  particular  duty  to  see  that  she  lacked  no 
comfort  or  care  that  was  requisite  to  her  health 
and  improvement,  and  indeed  he  had  said 
several  times  that  he  thought  the  plan  had 
much  better  be  abandoned  altogether.  The 
next  letter  from  his  agent,  however,  would 
quiet  his  conscience  and  anxiety,  and  by  its 
well-managed  and  shrewdly-put  arguments 
over-persuade  Sir  Robert's  mind  and  satisfy 
him  that  all  was  right,  and  would  ultimately 
turn  out  for  the  best  good  of  himself  and  the 
child. 

There  can  be  no  doubt   that  Mr.  Howard 


thought  he  was  doing  for  the  best ;  indeed,  af 
ter  time  showed  that  he  had  administered  the 
trust  that  his  friend  had  placed  in  his  charge, 
with  the  most  scrupulous  and  honorable  punc 
tuality,  but  the  truth  was,  he  saw  life  through 
a  false  phase,  through  a  glass  darkly,  and 
therefore,  in  his  judgment,  he  was  misled. 
There  could  be  no  possible  reason  why  he 
should  have  proposed  the  plan  which  he  had 
put  in  practice,  as  it  regarded  Sir  Robert's 
child,  except  with  a  view  to  promote  his 
friend's  happiness,  and  to  test  his  system  of 
philosophy.  In  fact,  he  was  a  most  conscien 
tious  man,  and  had  done  nothing  that  he  had 
not  fully  explained  to  his  employer. 

But  a  most  unexpected  result  was  to  come 
from  all  this  scheme — one  that  neither  Sir 
Robert  nor  the  agent  had  anticipated. 

Years  rolled  on,  and  the  child  remained  in 
its  humble  home,  believing  itself  an  orphan, 
or  little  better  than  one,  and  Sir  Robert  still  re 
mained  abroad,  partly  by  his  own  will,  and 
partly  by  the  singular  vicissitudes  of  fortune 
which  had  cast  him  and  his  fellow-voyagers 
upon  a  lone  island  of  the  ocean.  From  thence 
the  reader  has  followed  him  through  the 
scenes  we  have  related.  On  his  arrival  in 
England,  it  will  be  remembered  that  he  found 
that  Frederick  Howard  had  been  suddenly  at- 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


221 


tacked  by  sickness,  and  had  died.  Of  course, 
he  had  left  no  record  of  where  the  child  might 
have  been  found  ;  the  idea  had  probably  never 
occurred  to  him,  and  had  it  done  so,  he  would 
have  weighed  the  propriety  of  giving  the  se 
cret  into  another's  keeping  well,  before  he 
would  have  done  so.  The  truth  was,  that  the 
necessity  for  secrecy  had  been  most  religious 
ly  observed  by  him,  nor  had  he  ever  mention 
ed  aught  to  a  human  being  that  might  lead  to 
the  discovery  of  the  plan  adopted  for  the 
child's  support.  Had  his  illness  been  less 
sudden,  no  doubt,  had  his  reason  remained, 
he  would  have  left  some  paper  for  Sir  Rob- 
bert's  information  ;  but  this  was  not  the  case, 
his  attack  was  sudden,  and  affected  the  brain 
almost  immediately,  nor  did  his  reason  return 
again  before  his  death. 

Of  course,  this  being  the  case,  Sir  Robert 
Brompton's  daughter,  whom  it  had  been  pro 
posed  to  lose  for  a  while,  as  we  have  seen, 
now  became  absolutely  lost  indeed  ! 

For  Sir  Robert  to  advertise  her,  or  make  his 
bereavement  public,  would  be  to  expose  his 
own  weakness,  and  publish  broadcast  his  shame 
to  the  world.  For  the  same  reason  he  found 
that  he  could  employ  no  agents  in  the  search 
which  he  immediately  instituted,  but  that  he 
must  prosecute  it  alone  and  unaided.  This, 
however,  he  did  with  the  utmost  vigor,  and 
disguised  as  a  member  of  the  humble  class  of 
citizens,  and  sometimes  even  as  a  beggar  or 
an  abandoned  character  of  some  sort,  he  pene 
trated,  for  many  months,  into  the  various 
haunts  of  the  lower  classes  of  London.  It  was 
while  engaged  in  these  arduous  and  often 
dangerous  excursions,  that  he  so  often  re 
mained  absent  from  his  home,  as  Walter  used 
to  remark,  and  when  he  returned  would  be  so 
exhausted  and  depressed.  This  was  the  busi 
ness  that  weighed  so  heavily  upon  his  heart 
at  that  time. 

At  last  fortune  smiled  upon  these  efforts, 
and  he  happened,  as  we  have  intimated  before, 
to  meet  Edith  ;  he  was  struck  by  her  likeness 
to  his  wife  ;  he  eagerly  inquired  concerning 
her,  and  fully  satisfied  himself  by  a  train  of 
circumstances,  that  this  poor  forsaken  but 
beautiful  child  was  indeed  his  own  daughter. 
Though  impelled  by  the  most  impatient  anxi 
ety,  he  fully  satisfied  himself  before  he  took 
any  decided  steps  towards  adopting  her.  For 
certain  reasons  that  we  need  not  refer  to,  he 


found  it  by  no  means  so  easy  to  obtain  pos 
session  of  Edith,  which  was  the  name  of  the 
child  in  her  new  sphere,  and  was  therefore 
forced  to  perfect  the  plan  which  was  repre 
sented  in  the  opening  chapter  of  our  story.  It 
was  an  easy  matter  to  invent  a  story  of  inter 
est,  relating  to  a  girl  he  had  chanced  to  meet 
in  the  street,  which  Walter  readily  believed, 
touching  her  resemblance  to  a  young  sister 
which  he  had  lost  some  years  before.  And 
as  the  proposition  to  capture  and  bring  her 
away  from  the  den  where  she  was,  partook  of 
an  adventurous  and  chivalrous  character, 
Walter  readily  embarked  in  the  enterprise. 

At  this  stage  of  affairs,  having  committed 
himself  so  far,  Sir  Robert  Brompton  thought 
it  best  and  indeed  his  only  correct  policy,  still 
to  persist  in  keeping  the  secret  that  had  al 
ready  gone  so  far  in  its  effects.  Having  sac 
rificed  so  much  to  test  the  plan  that  he  had  at 
first  reluctantly  adopted,  he  thought  it  was  but 
fair  to  himself  to  give  heed  to  it  long  enough 
thoroughly  to  test  its  efficacy.  In  the  truth 
ful  love  and  fondness  of  Edith,  he  thought 
that  he  discovered  the  good  effects  of  his 
friend's  plan.  How  grateful  was  that  love  to 
his  sensitive  heart ;  he  was  almost  too  happy, 
for  he  loved  his  child  with  more  than  ordina 
ry  affection.  The  strange  vicissitudes  that 
had  connected  themselves  with  her  hereto 
fore,  heightened  the  natural  interest  that  he 
felt  for  her,  while  her  singular  beauty  added  a 
charm  to  all  that  made  Sir  Robert  dote  upon 
his  regained  treasure. 

Every  one  observed  this  unusual  fondness, 
and  even  Walter,  who  at  the  time  thought 
more  of  Edith  than  of  all  things  else,  was  so 
much  struck  with  it,  that  he  said  one  day, 
carelessly  : 

"  Sir  Robert,  1  sometimes  think  that  were 
Edith  indeed  your  daughter,  you  certainly 
could  love  her  no  better,  and  perhaps  would 
not  love  her  quite  so  well." 

"Do  you  think  so,  Walter?"  he  asked, 
thoughtfully,  and  looking  hard  at  him  the 
while,  as  though  he  wondered  if  his  young 
friend  had  even  suspected  for  one  moment  the 
true  state  of  the  relationship  between  them. — 
But  Walter's  expression  was  not  of  a  charac 
ter  to  heighten  the  fear  if  he  realized  it,  and 
his  mind  was  quiet  again,  as  his  protege  re 
plied  : 


222 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  Why,  yes,  Sir  Robert,  she  seems  to  be 
the  very  sun  of  your  existence." 

"  She  is,  Walter,  the  light  of  my  eyes,  and 
the  warmth  of  my  heart." 

But  this  occurred  before  Edith  had  been 
yet  a  twelvemonth  in  Sir  Robert's  household. 

Of  course,  he  realized  fully  that  the  time 
must  come,  eventually,  which  would  call"for  a 
revelation  of  the  secret,  both  for  his  own  sake 
and  Edith's  ;  but  Sir  Robert  had  placed  that 
period  of  time  at  a  very  remote  distance ;  in 
deed  he  did  not  permit  himself  to  dwell  upon 
that  theme  at  all — it  was  too  unpleasant  to 
contemplate.  He  realized  that  Edith  loved 
him  devotedly,  ay,  even  beyond  a  doubt,  and 
he  was  content.  He  had  arrived  at  this  hap 
py  degree  of  confidence  when  he  was  a  second 
time  made  miserable  on  account  of  his  child. 

When  she  was  stolen  away  from  him,  it 
very  nearly  broke  his  heart.  Again  he  dared 
not  make  his  loss  public,  or  advertise  her,  for 
that  would  make  his  private  affairs  so  public 
as  to  lead  to  strange  suspicions  and  conjec 
tures  in  the  public  mind,  and  even  Walter 
wondered  at  this  desire  for  secrecy,  this  dread 
of  publicity,  when  there  seemed  to  him  to  be 
so  much  at  stake.  But  Sir  Robert  paid  away 
his  money  freely  in  private  efforts  to  gain 
intelligence,  besides  which,  himself  and  Wal 
ter  wrought  almost  day  and  night  for  nearly  a 
whole  year,  though  all  in  vain  as  the  reader 
will  remember,  until  at  last  Edith  once  more 
returned  with  Clara. 

A  reviewal  of  these  events  brings  us  once 
more  to  the  present  bearing  of  our  story,  and 
the  present  situation  of  Edith  and  others  of 
the  household  of  Sir  Robert. 

When  the  reader  realizes  how  much  his  af 
fection  for  Edith  had  taken  hold  upon  the 
heart  of  Sir  Robert  Brompton,  how  complete 
ly  bound  up  he  was  in  this  regard  for  his 
child,  how  many  vicissitudes  she  had  encoun 
tered,  each  one  endearing  her  still  more  to 
him,  when  we  realize  that  Sir  Robert  had  no 
one  else  to  love  but  her,  and  that  she  was  the 
only  child  of  one  whom  he  had  loved  most 
dearly,  we  say  when  all  these  matters  were 
realized,  it  will  not  be  wondered  at  that  Sir 
Robert  seemed  so  completely  miserable  and 
broken-down,  when,  after  revealing  to  Edith 
that  which  he  thought  would  but  increase  her 
wealth  of  affection  for  him,  he  found  her  turn 
coldly  away,  without  one  gentle  word,  one 


single  kiss,  to  assure  him  of  her  duty  and  re 
gard. 

The  plan  which  had  cost  him  so  much  anx 
iety,  and  which  he  had  been  years  in  consum 
mating,  which  had  given  the  best  promise  of 
complete  success  even  to  the  very  last,  had  in 
the  denouement  signally  failed.  The  hope  of 
so  many  years  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  Sir 
Robert  felt  crushed  in  the  ruin  it  left.  As  he 
thought  upon  the  matter  now,  Edith's  aberra 
tion  of  mind  seemed  to  him  to  be  almost  a 
relief  to  him,  dreadful  as  it  was  to  contem 
plate,  for  had  she  conducted  this  in  a  calm 
and  cool  manner,  he  could  hardly  have  borne 
up  under  his  shame  and  chagrin. 

With  all  these  particulars  in  mind,  the  read 
er  will  comprehend  more  fully  than  might  be 
otherwise  done,  many  of  the  earlier  scenes 
and  events  of  our  story. 

In  this  dilemma  and  the  agony  of  grief  in 
duced  by  the  present  state  of  affairs,  Sir  Rob 
ert  turned  to  Clara,  and  strange  enough,  un 
der  the  circumstances,  found  most  effectual 
balm  and  solace  in  her  gentle  condolence. — 
Indeed  so  did  she  win  upon  his  confidence 
and  love,  that  he  told  her  the  circumstances 
which  we  have  related,  and  even  the  motive 
that  had  led  him  to  consent  to  Edith's  first  re 
moval  from  her  home.  He  secreted  no  mat 
ter  from  Clara,  and  opened  to  her  now  more 
fully  than  he  had  ever  done  to  any  one,  the 
secret  promptings  of  his  heart.  There  was  a 
vein  and  resource  in  Clara's  conversation,  that 
Sir  Robert  had  never  observed  before.  Per 
haps  her  untiring  tenderness  and  gentle  assi 
duity  to  Edith  first  aroused  his  love  more 
strongly,  and  afterwards  ripened  it  to  full 
force,  for  certain  it  was  that  he  sought  her  so 
ciety  frequently  now,  and  seemed  to  rely  up 
on  her  for  aid  and  comfort.  To  one  who 
paused  to  notice  their  relative  position  but  a 
comparatively  short  period  before,  this  would 
have  seemed  strange. 

Lord  Amidown  came  often  to  Sir  Robert's 
house,  but  he  came  only  to  weep  and  sorrow 
over  her  he  loved,  for  Edith,  like  Ophelia,  was 
only  fit  to  strew  flowers  now  ;  her  mind  seem 
ed  quite  gone  forever. 

"  Seems  she  still  as  listless  and  unheeding 
as  ever,  my  kind  girl  ?"  asked  Sir  Robert,  of 
Clara.  "Are  there  no  tokens  of  returning 
reason,  in  her  words  or  actions?" 

"  She  is  still  as  vacant  as  ever,  Sir  Robert," 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


223 


Clara  replied,  "  and  does  nothing  but  dream 
while  she  wakes  all  the  day  long.  She  sang 
so  sweetly  yesterday." 

"  Did  she  ?"  said  Sir  .Robert,  turning  away 
to  hide  a  tear  as  he  thought  of  her. 

"  I  think  she  talks  less  of  late,  and  not  so 
frequently  alluding  to  herself  and  you." 

"  And  what  says  her  physician  to  that, 
Clara  ?"  asked  Sir  Robert. 

"He  thought  it  a  favorable  sign,  but  he 
looked  anything  but  encouraging  to-day,  when 
he  went  away." 

"  Alas  !  Clara,"  said  Sir  Robert,  taking  her 
hand,  "in  this  severe  affliction,  I  feel  that  I 
should  be  quite  unmanned,  but  for  your  kind 
sympathy.  It  is  my  only  prop  now." 

"  O,  sir,"  said  Clara,  her  bright  eyes  spark 
ling  with  real  satisfaction  as  she  spoke,  "  I 
owe  you  so  much,  and  am  so  deeply  indebted  to 
you  for  everything,  that  it  rejoices  me  much 
to  have  you  speak  thus  to  me." 

"  I  see,  Clara,  that  we  have  not  been  so  in 
timate  as  we  should  have  been,  heretofore, 
though  I  have  ever  felt  a  tender  sympathy  for 
you  from  the  time  of  our  first  meeting." 

"  I  know  you  have,  Sir  Robert ;  all  your 
conduct  has  evinced  it ;  but  you  have  been 
more  wholly  occupied  with  Edith,  poor  dear 
girl,  who  richly  deserves  all  your  love." 

"This  may  be  so,  but  henceforth,  Clara, 
you  will  share  my  heart  with  Edith,  dearly  as 


I  love  her,  for  I  have  tried  you  well,  and  feel 
warmly  drawn  towards  you:" 

"  I  need  not  say  how  much  I  thank  you, 
Sir  Robert,  for  speaking  thus." 

"  It  was  a  strange,  but  kind  Providence, 
that  brought  you  here,  Clara,"  he  continued, 
"  and  many  a  time  have  I  thought  of  the  sin 
gular  chance  in  amazement." 

"  It  was  a  blessed  dispensation  fjr  me,  dear 
Sir  Robert,  for  new  when  I  look  back  upon 
the  life  I  lead,  I  tremble  to  see  how  lonely, 
deserted,  and  unprotected  I  was." 

Sir  Robert  had  always  treated  Clara  with 
the  utmost  kindness  and  consideration,  first 
for  Edith's  sake,  and  then,  as  he  came  to  know 
her  better,  for  herself  alone.  He  had  felt,  as 
we  have  said,  drawn  towards  her  by  certain 
traits  of  character  and  disposition  that  were 
constantly  displaying  themselves,  and  now  in 
the  present  emergency,  as  he  told  her,  he  felt 
that  he  should  have  been  quite  unmanned,  but 
for  her  kind  sympathy.  All  this  most  sensibly 
affected  Clara's  feelings,  who,  although  she 
might  not  heretofore  have  given  any  remark 
able  external  signs  of  tenderness  of  heart,  was 
in  reality  no  less  true  and  affectionate  at 
heart,  than  Edith  herself. 

When  Sir  Robert  kissed  her  now,  and  told 
her  that  she  should  ever  share  his  heart  and 
fortune  with  Edith  and  Walter,  he  did  not  see 
the  quivering  lips,  nor  the  big  tears  that  wet 
that  lone  child's  cheek ! 


CHAPTER    XL. 


THE   GAMING   TABLE. 


"  Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 
As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears." 


LORD  AMIDOWN  was  at  just  that  age  and  tem 
perament  at  which  despair  would  easily  drive 
him  to  seek  forgetfulness  in  the  excitement  of 
the  wine  cup  or  the  gaming  table,  and  it  was 
not  many  weeks  after  the  unhappy  mental  be 
reavement  that  Edith  had  experienced,  before 
he  might  be  seen  almost  nightly  at  the  gam 
ing  table,  often  risking  largely  and  losing  with  , 
little  apparent  regret.  It  was  a  desperate  re 
sort  at  first,  but  soon  grew  to  be  with  him,  as 
with  all  others  who  indulge  in  the  hazard  of 
gaming,  a  passion  beyond  control,  and  beyond 
the  reach  of  reason,  only  comparable  to  its 
sister  habit  and  sin,  drunkenness. 

Only  too  much  delighted  to  have  gotten 
hold  of  so  profitable  a  subject  as  Lord  Ami- 
down  proved  to  be,  the  frequenters  of  the  es 
tablishment  where  he  resorted  seemed  to  have 
a  perfect  understanding  with  each  other  that 
everything  should  be  done  within  their  power 
to  render  the  game  enticing  to  him,  and  thus 
he  was  often  permitted  to  go  away  a  heavy 
winner  for  a  time,  but  on  the  following  night 
he  would  not  only  lose,  most  likely  all  the 
money  he  had  gained  on  the  previous  night, 
but  perhaps  as  much  more  into  the  bargain. 
The  desire  of  winning  it  back  again  would 


attract  him  to  the  tables  once  more,  but  only 
to  lose  largely. 

His  visits  to  Edith  were  of  course  discon 
tinued  now.  It  was  too  melancholy  a  sight 
for  him  to  witness  the  state  in  which  he  al 
ways  found  her ;  she  did  not  even  know  him 
the  last  time  they  met,  a  fact  that  seemed  to 
touch  him  more  nearly  than  anything  before  ; 
and  he  told  Walter  then  that  he  could  not 
bear  to  meet  her  again  in  that  state,  that  it 
harrowed  up  his  feelings  almost  to  a  state  of 
desperation  to  see  so  much  beauty,  gentleness 
and  intellect,  wrecked  and  ruined  before  him. 
From  that  day  he  seemed  to  give  himself  up 
more  fully  to  the  vice  that  was  wearing  upon 
him,  and  he  became  more  reckless  than 
ever. 

Hearing  of  the  course  that  Lord  Amidown 
was  pursuing,  Sir  Robert  sought  him  more 
than  once,  and  strove,  by  good  advice,  to  per 
suade  him  to  leave  it  off'  while  he  could  yet 
do  so  without  ruin ;  but  he  saw  at  once  that 
the  demon  of  play  had  already  fascinated  and 
bewildered  the  brain  of  his  young  and  noble 
friend,  and  that  he  would  not  be  content  until 
he  had  lost  everything  left  to  him  by  his  proud 
and  rich  old  parent  the  Earl  of  Amidown. 


The  next  number  of  this  work  will  be  issued,  on  Saturday,  June  8th. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


CHAPTER   XL.— [CONTINUED.] 


To  Sir  Robert's  consternation,  Lord 
Amidovvn  came  to  him  one  night,  not  long 
after  the  period  referred  to,  in  order  to  borrow 
five  hundred  pounds,  declaring  honestly  that 
the  fickle  goddess  had  seemed  of  late  to  have 
completely  deserted  him,  but  that  he  should 
be  in  luck  again  shortly,  when  he  would  re 
turn  the  sum.  Of  course  Sir  Robert  let  him 
have  the  money,  but  not  without  a  sigh  for 
his  friend. 

"  Ah,  my  lord,  I  take  pleasure  in  rendering 
you  so  trifling  a  favor,  but  if  I  could  only 
persuade  you  to  leave  this  evil  and  insidious 
habit,  it  would  make  me  most  rejoiced." 

"  I  appreciate  your  kindness,  Sir  Robert," 
he  said,  after  musing  for  a  moment,  thought 
fully  ;  "  but  why  would  you  have  me  cease  to 
play  ?  I  am  injuring  no  one  but  myself,  and 
what  have  I  left  to  care  for  ?" 

The  tones  of  his  voice  were  so  deep  and 
truthful  as  he  said  this,  that  Sir  Robert  almost 
shuddered  as  he  realized  the  circumstances 
that  had  brought  all  this  misery  about.  The 
guilt  seemed  alone  upon  his  own  head,  and  he 
said  to  himself  as  his  young  friend  departed, 
"  if  any  one  has  cause  for  wretchedness,  surely 
that, one  is  myself."  And  it  did  seem  strange 


that,  with  so  much  unhappiness  at  heart,  he 
was  enabled  to  bear  up  so  well  as  he  did. 

Perhaps  no  one  in  Sir  Robert's  household 
was  so  deeply  grieved,  if  we  except  himself, 
as  the  good  Mrs.  Marlow,  at  Edith's  singular 
and  unhappy  condition.  She  scarcely  left  her 
charge  for  one  moment,  day  or  night,  and  by 
the  most  tender  solicitude  and  the  most  gentle 
and  endearing  manners,  seemed  by  degrees  to 
heal  the  wound  that  had  so  shocked  her  brain, 
and  gradually  to  win  her  back  to  reason  and 
a  slight  consciousness  of  things  about  her. 

One  day  Mrs.  Marlow  had  finished  combing 
Edith's  soft  and  luxuriant  hair,  and  as  she  did 
so  she  sat  down  by  her  side  and  took  her  hand 
within  .  her  own.  She  thought  that  the  gen 
tle  girl  seemed  to  look  more  kindly  and  con 
sciously  upon  her  than  usual ;  seizing  with 
avidity  upon  the  happy  thought,  Mrs.  Marlow 
kissed  her  tenderly,  and  as  she  did  so,  dropped 
a  tear  upon  Edith's  hand  which  she  held 
within  her  own.  That  token  of  feeling  seem 
ed  to  awaken  her  spirit ;  she  gazed  upon  her 
hand,  and  then  at  her  kind  friend,  and  burst 
into  a  flood  of  tears  ! 

"  One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin." 


228 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


It  was  the  first  tear  she  had  shed  for  months, 
the  first  relief  her  pent-up  soul  had  found 
since  the  almost  fatal  hour  of  that  strange 
revelation.  With  those  purging  tears,  reason 
had  come  again ! 

"  Sir  Robert,"  said  Mrs.  Marlow,  in  a  whis 
per,  as  she  sought  him  alone  in  his  study. 
"Ah!  Sir  Robert." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Marlow,  why  do  you  seek  me 
here,  and  look  so  full  of  some  matter  of  im 
portance  ?" 

"  O,  Sir  Robert,  I  have  such  good  news  to 
tell  you,"  said  the  happy  housekeeper,  dashing 
her  hand  across  her  eyes  to  clear  them  of 
tears. 

"  Of  whom  ?" 

"  Edith,  Sir  Robert." 

"  Of  Edith.  What  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  eager 
ly,  now  that  her  name  had  been  mentioned. 
"  What  about  her  ?  Does  the  doctor  think 
that  she  is  any  better  ?" 

"  Better,  Sir  Robert !  why  she  has  been 
weeping  like  a  child,"  said  the  excited  house 
keeper. 

"  Tears,  do  you  say  ?"  asked  her  master, 
rising  quickly  to  his  feet. 

"  Ay,  she  has  been  sheding  tears,  and  pro 
fusely,  too,  Sir  Robert." 

"Then  there  is  hope,  indeed,"  he  said. 
"  Has  she  spoken  since  ?" 

"  Not  yet." 

"  How  long  since  was  this,  Mrs.  Marlow  ?" 
asked  Sir  Robert,  musing. 

"  Nearly  an  hour,  but  I  wanted  to  let  her 
get  a  little  composed  before  I  came  away  to 
tell  you,  sir." 

"  That  was  very  proper,"  he  replied  ;  "  but 
let  us  go  to  her  now." 

"  You  will  be  very  cautious,  Sir  Robert  ?" 
suggested  the  housekeeper,  respectfully. 

"  0,  yes,  Mrs.  Marlow ;  I  have  had  one 
fearful  lesson,  and  shall  hardly  be  abrupt 
again  very  soon." 

Sir  Robert  found  that  Edith  was  indeed 
changed,  that  the  fearful  look  of  imbecility 
was  gone,  and  the  former  beauty  and  intelli 
gence  of  her  eyes  again  beamed  forth  from 
her  sweet  face. 

"Edith,  my  child!"  he  almost  whispered, 
as  he  approached  her. 

"  Fatfier  !"  she  murmured  low.  0,  how 
th?  wor.1  thrilled  and  echoed  through  his  heart, 


as  Edith  threw  her  arms  fondly   about  his 
neck,  and  kissed  him. 

She  remembered  all  that  had  transpired  at 
the  time  when  the  singular  revelation  had 
been  made  to  her — but  from  the  moment  when 
she  fully  realized  the  import  of  Sir  Robert's 
words,  all  was  to  her  as  a  blank  ;  she  could 
recall  nothing.  With  the  utmost  caution  and 
consideration,  matters  were  broken  to  her  with, 
judgment,  and  she  was  gradually  informed  of 
all  that  it  would  interest  her  to  know,  not  even 
excepting  the  circumstances  relating  to  Lord 
Amidown's  unhappy  propensity.  It  was  ac 
knowledged  to  her  by  Walter  that  her  serious 
illness  had  doubtless  led  him  to  take  the  first 
step  towards  a  sin  that  he  afterwards  followed 
for  excitement  and  forgetfulness,  until  finally 
it  had  become  a  settled  passion  with  him. 

Edith  of  course  felt  keenly  this  misfortune 
to  Lord  Amidown,  more  particularly  because 
she  realized  that  she  was  herself  the  innocent 
cause.  Walter  conversed  with  her  freely 
upon  the  subject,  and  informed  her  without 
reserve,  of  Lord  Amidown's  exact  condition. 
To  her  appeals  and  excuses,  Walter  answered 
frankly  that  he  considered  him  too  absolutely 
affected  by  the  fiendish  passion  ever  again  to 
reform,  and  that  any  farther  effort  on  his  or 
Sir  Robert's  part,  would  be  wholly  useless,  in 
asmuch  as  both  had  exerted  all  their  influence 
in  this  behalf  already,  to  no  purpose.  But 
Edith,  in  her  trusting  and  confident  love,  in 
her  woman  heart,  thought  differently;  she 
believed  that,  though  others  had  failed,  yet 
she  might  perhaps  influence  and  save  him. 
She  felt  freer  now  than  ever  to  act  for  him. 
She  felt  at  liberty  to  do  that  for  him  now  that 
she  might  not  have  done  befoie,  or  «ven  more, 
were  he  still  blessed  with  friends  and  fortune. 

As  the  forsaken,  unknown  orphan,  the  de 
pendent  on  charity,  Edith  felt  that  she  would 
have  been  comparatively  powerless;  under 
such  circumstances  she  would  not  have  pre 
sumed  to  seek  Lord  Amidown  on  any  errand. 
But  now,  with  a  name  and  position,  with  un 
limited  means  at  her  disposal,  and  while  he 
too  was  almost  a  beggar,  she  felt  a  strange 
power  and  incentive  within  her  to  act  inde 
pendently  and  alone  in  his  behalf.  She  real 
ized  a  secret  prompting  at  her  heart,  as  though 
the  purity  of  her  love  and  devotion  would 
conduct  them  both  safely  through  this  series 
of  trhl. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


229 


Thus  animated  and  resolved,  she  showed 
outwardly  even  less  regret  and  anguish  con 
cerning  Lord  Amidown  than  Sir  Robert  and 
Walter  had  expected  to  witness  ou  her  part. 
She  had  formed  a  resolution  within  her  own 
breast  to  rescue  him,  and  it  gave  her  a  bright 
and  animated  expression  that  her  face  had 
never  worn  until  then.  This  they  all  noticed 
with  no  little  surprise,  and  Clara  said  to  Wal 
ter,  one  side,  that  Edith  was  handsome  before, 
but  now  she  was  beautiful. 

Walter  had  taken  some  pains  to  seek  out 
Lord  Amidown  soon  after  Edith's  recovery  of 
her  mental  faculties,  and  to  tell  him  of  it.  At 
first  it  quite  unmanned  him— he  was  like  a 
child.  He  knew  not  what  to  say,  or  what  to 
do,  and  Walter  thought  that  perhaps  he  would 
return  at  once  to  seek  the  gentle  and  happy 
influence  that  he  had  so  prized  only  a  short 
time  before.  But  he  did  not  read  the  heart  of 
the  unhappy  man  aright ;  he  could  not  see  the 
contending  emotions  that  actuated  his  breast 
at  that  moment,  when  he  heard  for  the  first 
time  that  Edith,  whom  he  had  so  truly  and 
tenderly  loved,  was  once  more  in  possession  of 
her  full  power  of  intelligence. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  fly  to  her  presence, 
but  in  an  instant  the  fact  of  his  present  situa 
tion  rose  up  before  him — he  was  a  beggar  ! 
What  right  had  he  to  think  of  love  ?  could  he 
support  a  wife  ?  where  were  his  means  ?  alas, 
she  could  only  scorn  me  now,  he  thought ; 
every  one  has  forsaken  me,  and  perhaps  justly 
enough.  My  old  friends  cut  me  in  the  street, 
because  they  fear  I  shall  stop  them  to  borrow 
money  of  them.  Lord  Amidown  sighed 
heavily  as  his  heart  drew  the  truthful  picture. 
But,  he  thought,  "I'll  be  more  cautious.  I  will 
retire  the  moment  I  have  won  enough  to 
honorably  pay  what  I  owe,  and  will  strive  to 
purify  myself,  that  I  may  again  become  worthy 
of  her  dear  love.  O,  no,  no,  I  could  not  look 
upon  her  now,  my  eyes  would  fail  me." 

The  truth  was,  that  even  the  few  months 
that  Lord  Amidown  had  indulged  in  gaming 
had  been  sufficient  to  quite  exhaust  his 
resources,  and  in  his  madness  for  play,  he 
had  mortgaged  the  very  home  of  his  ances- 
ters,  besides  having  thrown  away  as  much 
gold  as  he  could  borrow  from  his  friends  and 
relations,  all  the  while  vainly  hoping  that 
fortune  would  turn  by-and-by,  and  that  he 
would  regain  all  that  he  had  so  foolishly  lost. 


In  this  plight,  as  he  acknowledged  to  himself, 
his  former  friends  began  to  avoid  him,  and  he 
literally  became  a  wanderer,  not  knowing 
where  to  lay  his  head,  or  even  at  times  where 
he  might  obtain  his  next  meal. 

"  His  household    gods  were   broken — he  had  no 
home." 

So  sudden  a  change  from  affluence  to  pov 
erty  was  almost  unprecedented,  and  some  of 
his  relations  had  hoped  that  when  he  had 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill  he  would  re 
form,  and  strive  once  more  to  ascend  it ;  but 
all  their  earnest  intercessions  failed  of  produc 
ing  any  effect,  except  may-be,  good  resolutions, 
which  his  lordship  was  unable  to  keep. 

Matters  were  in  this  melancholy  condition 
when  Edith  and  Walter  sat  one  afternoon 
together  in  the  drawing-room.  They  had 
been  silent  for  some  time,  when  at  last  she 
asked : 

'•Walter,  can  you  tell  me  where  I  can  see 
Lord  Amidown  ?" 

"  I  cannot  at  present  tell  you,  Edith  ;  he 
has  left  his  former  home,  you  know,  and  even 
his  sister  has  removed  to  the  house  of  some 
branch  of  the  family." 

"  I  know  that,  Walter,  but  is  there  not  some 
place  where  I  could  see  and  speak  with  him 
for  a  few  moments  alone  ?" 

"  No,  I  think  not,  Edith ;  but  you  know  how 
much  pleasure  it  would  give  me  to  bear  any 
message  to  him  from  you,  and  also  to  bring 
you  back  an  answer." 

"  How  can  you  communicate  with  him, 
Walter,  if,  as  you  say,  he  has  no  fixed  resi 
dence,  or  spot  where  he  may  be  found  at  cer 
tain  periods  ?" 

"  I  mean  such  a  place  as  you  could  visit 
with  propriety.  It  is  different  with  me.  I 
should  take  any  message  you  entrusted  to  me 
directly  to  the  gaming  house  in  St.  James 
street." 

"  Is  that  the  one  he  frequents  ?" 

"  The  only  one  I  have  ever  heard  of  his 
visiting  regularly,"  replied  Walter. 

"  Is  he  always  there  at  night  ?" 

"  Almost  invariably,  or  at  least  I  have  al 
ways  found  him  there  when  I  desired  to  meet 
him." 

"  At  what  hour  ?" 

"  From  ten  till  long  past  midnight,  or  most 
any  hour  before  day  break  in  the  morning. 


230 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


He  will  be  sure  to  be  there  to-night,  I  know," 
said  Walter. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"I  have  loaned  him  a  hundred  pounds-r-he 
promised  me  it  should  be  the  last  he  would 
ask  for,  and  he  said  he  wanted  to  try  his  luck 
only  once  more." 

«  Once  more,  alas  !  it  is  ever  thus,"  said 
Edith,  musing  to  herself,  "and  still  once 
more." 

"  It  is  indeed  ever  thus,"  said  Walter, 
"  and  I  grieve  for  the  loss  of  one  like  Lord 
Amidown." 

«  Not  lost,  Walter,  he  has  only  strayed ; 
as  yet  it  is  night,  but  the  day  shall  bring  light 
with  it." 

"Heaven  grant  that  you  may  be  right, 
Edith;  but  I  have  seen  all  endeavors  prove  so 
useless  upon  him,  that  I  cannot  cherish  the 
least  hope.  Why,  Edith,  did  he  not  come  to 
you  at  once  after  your  illness  ?" 

A  slight  flush  overspread  her  face  at  this 
remark,  but  she  answered  promptly  : 

"There  may  be  reasons  for  his  conduct 
that  neither  you  nor  I  can  at  present  under 
stand,  Walter." 

Walter  had  incontinently  touched  upon  a 
tender  subject  in  his  last  remark,  one  that  had 
cost  Edith  more  thought,  perhaps,  than  any 
other  portion  of  Lord  Amidown's  conduct. 
It  did  seem  to  her  as  though  if  he  had  loved 
her  as  she  felt  that  she  loved  him,  that  he 
would  have  come  to  her  at  all  hazards,  and 
yet  in  her  kindness  and  consideration  she 
could  imagine  many  reasons  why  in  his  sen 
sitiveness  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  come 
to  Sir  Robert's  house.  She  could  not  blame 
him  as  others  did,  she  remembered  him  too 
well  as  he  had  been,  not  as  he  was  at  that 
moment.  In  fact,  Edith  had  realized  the  truth 
of  the  case  just  as  Lord  Amidown  had  been 
affected,  and  she  at  last  no  longer  thought 
strange  of  him  on  this  point. 

Turning  from  Walter,  she  sought  Mrs. 
Marlow,  and  was  long  closeted  with  the  kind 
housekeeper. 

The  reader  must  come  with  us  now  from 
Sir  Robert  Brompton's  house  to  a  very  differ 
ent  establishment. 

Ij  is  again  night  in  the  great  city.  The 
masses  have  lain  them  down  to  sleep,  but  the 
restless  tide  of  dissipation  rushes  on  as  swiftly 
as  ever.  Indeed  it  is  high  noon  with  the 


gambling  hells  at  midnight.  Night  is  turned 
into  day  with  them,  and  day  into  Vight,  and 
well  chosen  is  their  time,  for  dark  deeds  should 
be  consummated  in  dark  hours.  What  house 
is  this  that  seems  to  rival  all  its  neighbors  for 
brilliancy  even  in  elegant  St.  James  street  ? 
Look  well  at  the  glitter  and  tinsel  of  its  be 
longings  ;  observe  the  character  of  those  that 
wait,  and  listen  to  the  sounds  within.  They 
are  not  boisterous,  but  significant.  This  is 
one  of  the  famed  hells  of  London,  so  ap 
propriately  named. 

Pause  for  a  moment,  and  observe  the  person 
of  this  young  man  just  entering  this  den  of 
vice;  there  is  a  shabby  gentility  about  his 
thread-bare  coat — a  forlorn  air.  He  seems 
sad  and  dejected,  his  cheek  is  pale,  and  his  eyes 
are  dilated  like  one  under  the  influence  of 
spirituous  liquors ;  but  his  step  is  too  steady 
for  that,  his  excitement  is  of  a  mental,  not  a 
physical  character.  As  he  paid  his  entrance 
fee,  and  stepped  into  the  gorgeously  lighted 
rooms,where  his  features  became  more  distinct 
ly  visible,  the  observer  would  have  recognized 
him  as  Lord  Amidown.  He  mused  for  some 
moments  to  himself,  and  walked  busily  among 
the  tables  without  participating  in  the  games 
of  hazard  that  were  going  on,  nor  the  invita 
tions  that  were  offered  to  him  on  all  sides.  At 
last,  however,  he  met  with  a  tall,  dark  man, 
whom  he  seemed  at  once  to  recognize,  and  to 
greet  as  though  he  had  been  seeking  him  on 
an  appointment. 

"  Good  evening,  my  lord,"  said  he  in  black, 
extending  a  hand,  as  he  greeted  him. 

"  Good  evening,  sir,"  said  Lord,  Amidown, 
carelessly,  and  with  a  vacant  air. 

"I  see  you  are  quite  prompt,  my  lord,  to 
your  appointment." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  rousing  himself  a 
little.  "  I  have  come  to  get  my  revenge  upon 
you  to-night.  Your  luck  has  been  all  one 
way,  but  fortune  must  change  at  last,  or  I  sadly 
mistake." 

"She's  a  fickle  goddess,"  said  the  other, 
truthfully,  and  yet  with  an  expression  of  sar 
casm  upon  his  face, — "  and  you  should  place 
little  reliance  or  confidence  in  her;  but  after 
all,  it  is  very  true,  as  you  say,  that  she  must 
change  now  and  then,  or  else  she  would  not 
merit  her  title  of  fickleness  :  so  perhaps  it 
may  be  your  turn  to-night." 

"  I  have  need  enough  of  her  smiles,  and  if 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


231 


she  ever  is  to  dispense  them  to  me,  it  should 
be  this  night,"  said  Lord  Amidown,  with  a 
sad  expression  of  countenance. 

"  How  much  have  you  got,  my  lord  ?" 
asked  his  companion,  coolly. 

"  How  much  have  I  got  ?"  interrupted  his 
lordship,  in  surprise. 

"  Excuse  me,  1  meant  to  ask,"  said  he  in 
black,  "at  what  figure  you  would  commence  ?" 

"Fifty  will  do  to  start  with,"  said  Lord 
Amidown,  carelessly  sitting  down  to  the  table 
opposite  his  companion. 

"  Fifty  pounds,  fifty  pounds,"  repeated  he 
in  black,  "  rather  a  small  figure,  but  as  you 
say,  my  lord,  it  will  do,  perhaps,  to  commence 
with."  As  he  said  this,  he  laid  a  pile  of  bank 
notes  by  his  own  side  from  which  he  drew  his 
stakes. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  they  com 
menced  to  play.  Lord  Amidown  of  course 
did  not  wish  to  let  his  antagonist  know  the 
limited  character  of  his  resources,  nor  was  he 
willing  to  stake  all  on  a  single  game,  though 
he  commenced  at  a  low  figure,  hoping  gradual 
ly  to  win  a  handsome  sum.  He  in  black 
managed  with  the  coolness  and  adroitness  of 
a  practised  gamester ;  he  lost  at  first  at  almost 
every  stake,  winning  once  in  a  while,  just 
enough  to  keep  up  an  apparent  interest  in  the 
game.  An  observant  witness  would  have 
marked  with  surprise  the  game  he  played:  in 
deed  he  seemed  to  win  or  lose,  just  as  he 
pleased.  It  was  very  plain,  also,  to  any  one 
not  so  much  interested  as  Lord  Amidown 
himself  was  in  the  game,  that  his  antagonist 
was  permitting  him  to  win  largely  only  as  a 
decoy,  and  to  tempt  him  in  the  end  to  greater 
losses  than  he  might  otherwise  risk. 

"  My  lord,  you  have  extraordinary  luck  to 
night,  and  are  punishing  me  severely." 

"  It  would  take  a  month  of  such  luck  as 
this  to  refund  to  me  my  losses,"  he  replied. 

"  You  are  in  a  fair  way  to  make  them  up 
now,  I  should  judge." 

"  Think  you  so  ?"  said  his  lordship,  smiling, 
as  he  drew  another  winning  to  his  side. 

"  To  be  sure — there  you  are  again :  a  thous 
and  more.  This  is  extraordinary,"  continued 
his  antagonist,  with  well  affected  surprise,  as 
he  prepared  to  set  another  thousand. 

The  fact  was,  that  Lord  Amidown  played 
honestly,  while  those  who  understand  these 
matters  know  very  well  that  the  regular 


gambler  cheats  either  sooner  or  later,  making 
sure  in  that  way  to  come  off  winner  at  the 
last.  But  he  who  played  with  Lord  Amidown 
was  no  common  man.  He  played  and  lost 
like  a  philosopher,  and  all  the  time  with  a 
sneer  upon  his  lip,  as  though  he  scorned  the 
employment  in  which  he  was  engaged.  And 
yet  his  design  upon  his  companion  was  per 
fectly  apparent,  and  now  and  then  he  seasoned 
the  game  with  well-timed  remarks,  that  only 
seemed  more  keenly  to  incite  Lord  Amidown 
to  a  deeper  interest  in  the  game  before  them. 
They  had  played  now  for  some  time  in  this 
manner,  until  his  lordship  had  by  an  extraor 
dinary  run  of  luck  won  with  the  small  amount 
with  which  he  commenced,  ten  thousand 
pounds,  and  still  they  played  on,  a  thousand  at 
each  stake.  Of  course  it  would  have  been 
next  to  impossible  for  hinxto  have  won  to  this 
extent,  had  not  his  antagonist  purposely  lost 
now  and  then  for  his  own  object. 

"  There  is  little  use  in  this — it  is  no  game 
at  all.  I  have  lost  enough." 

"  You  promised  me  my  revenge,"  said  his 
lordship,  "  and  must  play  on." 

"  0,  if  you  insist,  of  course  I  must  go  to 
the  extent  that  I  have  about  me,"  continued 
the  other,  with  well  affected  complacency, 
and  as  though  he  still  remained  against  his 
will. 

"  You  will  play,  then  ?" 

"  0,  yes,"  said  the  other. 

A  small  crowd  had  now  gathered  about  the 
table,  as  is  the  custom  whenever  the  stakes 
played  for  are  of  a  heavy  amount,  and  some 
of  Amidown's  former  friends,  who  stood  near 
to  him,  did  not  hesitate  to  advise  him  to  with 
draw  from  the  game  with  so  snug  a  sum,  and 
not  risk  it  all  again. 

"  Such  luck  can't  follow  you,  Amidown, 
long,"  said  one." 

"  Quit  while  your  pocket  is  full,"  said 
another,  in  his  ear. 

"I'm  in  luck  to-night,"  he  said,  smiling; 
"  don't  interrupt  me  now." 

His  singular  partner  was  in  no  way  discon 
certed  by  the  good  luck  that  seemed  to  attach 
to  his  antagonist's  play,  but  sat  perfectly 
calm  and  self-possessed  in  his  seat.  He  over 
heard  the  remarks  addressed  to  his  lordship, 
but  made  no  answering  reply,  though  a  scorn 
ful  expression  wreathed  itself  about  his  ex 
pressive  mouth.  But  he  seemed  evidently  to 


232 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


tire  of  the  present  state  of  things,  and  finally 
said: 

"  Come,  my  lord,  this  is  quite  an  unpromis 
ing  game ;  let  us  make  a  round  stake  of  it, 
and  close.  Place  ten  thousand  on  the  mark, 
and  I  will  cover  it  for  one  game." 

"  Say  five,"  said  Lord  Amidown,  a  little 
cautious,  for  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of 
losing  all  he  had  won  at  one  single  chance, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  luck  would  change 
with  him  soon. 

"  No,  ten  is  my  game ;  you  have  won 
largely,  and  it  is  a  fair  offer." 

"Very  well,"  said  Lord  Amidown,  over 
come  by  the  tempting  hope  that  he  might 
possibly  double  his  winnings. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?"  asked  he  in  black. 

"  Yes,"  answered  his  lordship. 

"It  is  your  turn  to  throw  first,"  he  continu 
ed.  "  Go  on,  if  you  please." 

Lord  Amidown  threw  the  dice  and  scored  a 
high  number,  but  not  an  unusual  one,  when 
his  antagonist  declared  it,  and  prepared  to 
play  himself.  The  crowd  gathered  close 
about  them,  and  seemed  intent  upon  the 
chance  that  was  about  to  be  decided,  and 
which  related  to  the  possession  of  so  large  a 
sum  of  money. 

The  dice  rattled  aloft  and  descended  upon  the 
table,  showing  the  highest  number  that  one 
cast  of  the  instruments  could  score.  But  at  the 
same  moment  a  gloved  hand  from  the  crowd 
was  laid  upon  the  dice,  and  a  voice  said,  in  a 
low,  but  distinct  and  thrilling  tone  : 

"  These  dice  are  loaded,  my  lord,  and  if  I 
understand  this  game  aright,  he  who  is  detect 
ed  in  cheating,  and  particularly  in  using  loaded 
dice,  forfeits  the  game.  The  money  is  there 
fore  yours." 

A  dozen  voices  pronounced  the  dice  to  be 
loaded,  as  they  were  now  passed  from  hand  to 
hand,  and  also  unhesitatingly  declared  that 
the  money  belonged  to  Lord  Amidown  by  the 
rules  of  the  game  and  the  place.  In  the  con 
fusion  that  ensued,  the  money  was  pressed 
upon  Lord  Amidown  by  those  about  him,  and 
he  received  it,  though  he  felt  half  unwilling 
to  do  so,  while  his  companion,  with  a  face 
burning  with  passion,  yet  overcome  by  the 
sudden  and  indisputable  evidence  brought 
against  him,  frowned  coolly  upon  them  all. 

"  And  who  are  you,  who  set  up  for  um 
pire  here  ?"  he  asked,  turning  angrily  to  him 


who  had  so  fearlessly  interfered  in  the  game, 
and  exposed  his  duplicity. 

The  person  thus  addressed  was  apparently 
a  very  young  man,  who  had  been  so  interested 
in  observing  the  progress  of  the  game,  that 
he  had  not  before  looked  him  who  now  spoke 
in  the  face.  He  was  dressed  in  a  slouched 
cap  and  heavy  cloak,  and  seemed  by  his  man 
ner  to  be  a  novice  there ;  but  thus  addressed, 
he  turned  calmly  towards  the  speaker,  who 
exclaimed,  as  their  glances  met : 

"  Gracious  God,  do  those  eyes  come  from 
the  grave  to  haunt  me  !" 

As  he  spoke  thus,  he  staggered  back  from 
the  table  where  he  had  been  at  play,  with 
averted  face  and  trembling  body.  He  was  a 
man  of  rather  more  than  ordinary  stature,  and 
perhaps  a  little  past  his  prime,  yet  his  figure 
showed  that  it  had  once  been  the  seat  of 
strength  and  manly  grace.  But  now  he  was 
trembling  before  the  presence  of  one  who  was, 
as  compared  to  him,  a  mere  stripling,  and  who 
seemed  at  this  moment  to  be  quite  as  ill  at 
ease,  though  not  so  visibly  affected,  as  himself. 
The  exclamation  which  he  had  uttered  so 
loud,  startled  nearly  the  whole  company,  who 
hastened  to  the  spot  to  solve  the  mystery.  It 
was  no  unusual  thing  for  one  to  lay  violent 
hands  upon  another,  in  the  excitement  induced 
by  the  character  and  occupation  of  those  who 
frequented  the  gaming  room ;  oftentimes  dead 
ly  weapons  were  produced,  and,  sad  to  say, 
sometimes  for  the  purpose  of  self-destruction, 
when  some  sanguine  and  deluded  being  lost 
his  all.  Those  who  now  hurried  to  the  spot 
where  the  scene  we  have  described  had  oc 
curred,  looked  to  witness  some  such  matter  or 
casualty  as  those  we  have  named,  and  crowd 
ed  upon  the  gambler  in  black,  until  the  physi 
cal  effort  to  retain  his  feet  seemed  to  arouse 
him,  and  also  to  awaken  whatever  there  was 
of  spirit  left  in  his  nature.  He  threw  up  his 
hand  in  a  moment,  when  he  realized  the  de 
mand  made  upon  him  for  physical  effort,  and 
throwing  back  his  head,  braced  himself  for 
the  occasion. 

"  What's  the  matter  now?"  exclaimed  a 
half  dozen  voices  from  the  by-standers,  who 
had  noticed  this  surprise. 

"  Stand  back — room,  room,  I  say,"  exclaim 
ed  he  in  black,  looking  upon  those  about  him 
with  an  eye  in  which  the  most  desperate  and 
daring  will  was  expressed. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


233 


The  young  man  to  whom  we  have  referred, 
also  seemed  strongly  moved,  but  turning  to 
Lord  Amidown,  whom  he  had  just  so  oppor 
tunely  befriended,  he  whispered  something  in 
his  ear  that  caused  his  lordship  to  be  scarcely 
less  affected  than  his  antagonist  had  been,  and 
to  hurry  with  his  new  companion  at  once 
towards  the  door,  from  whence  the  man  in 
black  had  just  made  his  escape. 

"  You  are  not  going  so  quickly,  are  you, 
Amidown?"  asked  two  or  three,  calling  after 
him. 

"  Stay  a  while,  Amidown,"  said  another, 
"  if  only  to  introduce  your  friend." 

"  Hold  on  a  bit,  and  let's  have  a  time  after 
this  fun." 

"  Are  you  frightened,  Amidown,  that  you 
cut  so  ?"  asked  another,  half-laughing  as  he 
said  so. 

"  No,  no,  gentlemen,  but — " 

"  0,  hang  your  buts,  we  want  you  ;  so  hold 
on,  old  boy." 

"Another  time,"  he  said,  evidently  much 
embarrassed. 

'"Twont  do,  now  or  never,"  said  two  or 
three,  catching  at  his  arms,  and  half-turning 
him  round  as  they  did  so. 

"  Come,  neighbor,"  said  one,  addressing 
Lord  Amidown's  companion,  "  join  us  in  in 
ducing  his  lordship  to  stop  and  explain." 

But  the  young  man  thus  addressed  made 


no  reply,  while  Amidown,  half  out  of  patience 
at  the  annoyance,  seemed  struggling  to  keep 
control  of  his  temper. 

"  Excuse  me,  gentlemen,  excuse  me  now," 
he  said  hurriedly,  as  he  passed  on  with  his 
companion  a  few  steps  in  advance  of  those 
who  were  addressing  him. 

A  few  curious  persons  followed  them  even 
into  the  street  on  their  way  out,  and  saw  them 
both  enter  a  private  carriage,  in  which  they 
were  driven  rapidly  away.  But  as  the  door 
was  closed  upon  them,  those  nearest  to  the 
vehicle  could  distinctly  notice  upon  its  panels 
the  Brompton  coat  of  arms  ! 

"  That   is   Sir  Robert  Brompton's   coach, 

Square,"  said  one." 

"  I  know,"  said  another,  "  the  rich  old  fellow 
with  the  handsome  daughters." 

Some  now  called  to  mind  the  singular  inter 
est  evinced  in  the  game  by  the  person  who 
had  afterwards  shown  so  much  influence  over 
Lord  Amidown,  and  the  remarkable  interfer 
ence  that  had  saved  him  such  a  heavy  sum  of 
money.  Others  alluded  to  the  amazement  of 
the  stranger  in  black,  when  his  eyes  met  those 
of  his  lordship's  young  friend.  But  no  one  at 
tempted  to  explain  any  of  these  extraordinary 
circumstances  in  relation  to  the  singular  scene 
which  had  just  occurred.  All  was  clouded  in 
mystery. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 


THE    PRODIGAL'S    RETURN 


Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman, 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kenning  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human. 


BURNS. 


IN  the  meantime,  the  relationship  between 
Walter  and  Clara  had  assumed  no  material 
change.  She  was  still  like  a  tender  and  lov 
ing  sister  to  him,  while  Walter  on  his  part 
was  a  most  devoted  lover  to  her,  though  his 
feelings  were  perhaps  under  considerable  re 
straint.  He  remembered  the  promise  he  had 
made,  and  therefore  did  not  again  open 
ly  refer  to  the  matter  of  his  regard  for  her. — 
But  it  was  not  in  reason  that  such  a  state  of 
affairs  should  long  continue  ;  though  Walter 
was  withheld  by  his  promise  from  making  any 
decided  advances,  yet  he  might  now  and  then 
gently  hint  or  refer  to  the  subject  of  his  love 
for  her,  but  however  gently  this  was  done,  he 
was  so  pleasantly,  yet  adroitly,  parried  in  his 
advance,  that  at  last  he  began  to  realize  the 
too  frequent  recoil  of  his  own  tenderness,  and 
yet  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  feel  vexed  at 
the  treatment  which  he  received  from  the 
kind-hearted  and  beautiful  girl.  Some  per 
sons  can  say  us  nay,  and  leave  a  fairer  im 
pression  and  better  satisfaction  than  another 
who  may  grudgingly  assent  to  our  demands. 

Having  once  shown  Walter  how  much  in 
earnest  she  was  concerning  the  affection  that 
he  had  professed  for  her,  and  the  relationship 
that  he  had  seriously  proposed,  Clara  no  long 
er  gave  way  to  tears  or  regrets,  for  there 


seemed  to  be  a  native  philosophy  of  character 
about  her  that  taught  her  to  strive  to  be  cheer 
ful,  let  what  might  betide  her,  and  let  her 
feelings  dictate  what  they  could.  Thus  it 
was  that  even  when  her  soul  was  the  saddest 
within,  still  she  dealt  in 

"  Quilps  and  cranks,  and  wreathed  smiles." 

The  poor  girl  felt  that  she  had  no  claim  up 
on  the  position  that  she  held  in  Sir  Robert's 
household,  and  that  she  had  her  own  welcome 
to  make  and  to  sustain  in  that  home,  which 
chance  had  so  kindly  provided.  Reasoning 
thus,  she  felt  that  it  was  her  only  true  policy 
to  make  herself  agreeable,  not  to  cast  a  cloud 
all  about  her  by  her  own  melancholy  and  sor 
row.  Now  that  Edith  had  been  acknowledg 
ed  as  the  daughter  of  Sir  Robert,  and  a  plaus 
ible  story  given  out  to  cover  up  the  cause  of 
her  long  estrangement,  Clara  felt  more  than 
ever  the  loneliness  of  her  situation.  True, 
Edith  was,  if  possible,  more  kind  and  thought 
ful  of  her  than  ever,  but  nothing  could  make 
her  forget  that  she  was  there  by  charity  and 
on  sufferance  ;  nothing  could  supply  to  her  the 
want  of  the  quiet  confidence  of  birth  and  right. 

"  Dear  Clara,  you  surely  do  not  love  me 
any  the  less  because  of  the  change  that  has 
come  over  my  position,  in  relation  to  Sir  Rob 
ert  and  this  house,  do  you  ?" 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


235 


"  No,  Edith,"  replied  her  companion,  "  I 
love  you  none  the  less ;  indeed  I  rejoice  at 
your  good  fortune." 

"  But,  Clara,  I  fear  that  you  do  not 
love  me  quite  so  well — I  am  jealous  of  your 
regard,  because  I  have  loved  you  ever  since 
we  have  known  each  other,  so  dearly  and  tru 
ly." 

"  I  know  you  have,  Edith — I  know  you  have, 
and  you  deserve  all  the  good  fortune  that  has 
fallen  to  your  share,"  answered  her  compan 
ion,  throwing  her  arms  about  Edith's  neck  and 
kissing  her. 

"  You  shall  ever  be  my  dear,  dear  sister, 
let  what  may  happen,"  said  Edith,  returning 
her  caresses. 

In  this  state  of  affairs,  Clara  was  still  the 
star  of  Sir  Robert's  drawing-rooms,  or  rather 
she  was  the  comet,  while  Edith  was  the  star. 
For  hers  was  that  brilliant  meteor-like  genius 
and  beauty,  that  startles  and  challenges  as 
tonishment  as  well  as  admiration,  while 
Edith's  charms,  which  most  unquestionably 
exceeded  those  of  Clara  in  fact,  when  balanced 
in  the  scale  of  true  beauty  and  loveliness, 
were  of  the  milder  and  star-like  serenity  that 
burneth  steadily  and  gently  in  its  sphere. — 
Clara  was  still  the  centre  of  attraction,  and  as 
pleasant  as  ever,  while  many  a  titled  head 
bent  low  in  homage  to  the  power  of  her  clear, 
witching  eye,  and  the  wit  of  her  keenly  tem 
pered  tongue. 

When  Walter  Manning  had  first  seen  Edith 
as  she  stood  in  Sir  Robert's  house,  on  the 
night  when  they  had  rescued  her  from  the 
fearful  haunt  in  St.  Giles,  he  thought  he  had 
never  seen  so  sweet  a  face  before ;  indeed  he 
loved  Edith,  though  she  was  then  a  child,  as 
it  were  instinctively,  and  from  day  to  day 
that  love  grew  upon  him,  until  the  period 
when  he  became  acquainted  with  Clara. — 
Edith's  full  reliance  upon  him,  her  sweetness 
of  disposition,  her  beauty,  and  the  mystery 
that  enveloped  her  at  that  time,  all  had  their 
weight,  no  doubt,  in  bringing  about  this  result, 
and  though  Walter  never  told  her,  so,  yet  he 
loved  her,  or  thought  that  he  did,  better  than 
he  could  ever  love  again. 

But  no  sooner  was  Clara  fairly  introduced 
into  Sir  Robert's  household,  than  she  quietly 
and  quite  unintentionally  supplanted  Edith 
altogether  in  his  heart,  and  assumed  the 
throne  of  his  affections  in  her  own  person. — 


Walter  gradually  confessed  this  rule,  and  he 
thought  most  truly  now  that  he  loved  her,  and 
perhaps  he  did,  though  he  had  felt  the  same 
before  towards  Edith.  But  the  sequel  of  the 
story  must  show  how  his  heart  was  finally  af 
fected. 

Perhaps  Walter  was  incited  in  no  small  de 
gree  in  his  devotion  to  Clara,  by  the  extraor 
dinary  and  universal  homage  that  he  saw  her 
constantly  receiving,  for  there  is  emulation 
even  in  love.  Walter  felt,  too,  some  pride  in 
sharing  the  confidence  or  intimacy  of  one  at 
whose  shrine  so  many,  high  in  the  aristocratic 
circles  of  the  town,  bent  submissively.  He 
felt,  laying  aside  their  titles,  that  he  could 
otherwise  show  quite  as  good  a  claim  to  her 
hand  as  the  best  of  them  all,  whether  in  the 
matter  of  intelligence  or  that  of  manly 
beauty,  and  it  was  a  fact,  that  few  persons  vis 
ited  Sir  Robert's  who  could  compare  with  our 
young  East  Indian  in  personal  appearance. 

But  to  Clara  they  were  all  alike ;  she 
treated  them  each  with  the  same  courtesy, 
having  a  kind  word  for  this  one,  a  sparkling 
repartee  for  another,  a  smile  for  a  third,  and 
perhaps  a  playful  flirtation  with  a  fourth,  but 
encouragement  as  to  the  matter  of  regard, 
she  gave  to  none.  With  her  powers  of  dis 
cernment,  she  was  quick  to  understand  what 
strain  of  conversation  and  what  spirit  was 
best  suited  to  this  one  or  that,  and  she  treated 
them  accordingly.  Thus  cheerful  and  beau 
tiful,  still  she  seemed  to  the  frequenters  of  Sir 
Robert's  house  either  to  have  no  heart  at  all 
to  love,  or  else  to  have  irrevocably  made  up 
her  mind  to  share  its  tenderness  with  no  one. 

Colonel  Freeman,  of  the  Royal  Hussars, 
was  one  of  Clara's  warmest  admirers,  and 
as  he  stood  now  a  little  removed  from  her 
side,  while  she  chatted  in  her  ever  captivat 
ing  yet  unaffected  manner  with  old  Sir 
George  Ramsay,  the  colonel  turned  to  a 
friend  by  his  side,  and  remarked,  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause : 

"  Hang  me,  Capt.  Sidney,  if  that  girl  is  not 
a  perfect  riddle  to  solve.  Just  observe  how 
in  earnest  she  is  with  that  old  fellow,  Sir 
George  Ramsay,  while  you  and  I  stand  here 
quite  neglected." 

"  A  riddle  did  you  say  ?  that's  nothing  odd  ; 
all  women  are  riddles,  colonel. ' 

"  Yes,  that  may  be  true  enough,  but,  zounds 
she  is  a  perfect  witch,  and  keeps  up  a  running 


236 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


fire  here  upon  our  hearts  from  one  end  of  the 
line  to  the  other,  and  yet  shows  not  a  single 
feather  of  a  coquette." 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  honestly,  and  some 
what  thoughtfully,  for  he  too  was  a  warm  ad 
mirer  of  Clara.  "  No,  no,  the  girl  is  no 
coquette,  that  is  certain." 

"  Do  you  think  that  she  is  in  love  ?"  asked 
the  soldier,  still  regarding  her. 

"  With  whom,  colonel  ?" 

"  Why,  with  any  one." 

"  I  have  never  seen  any  sign  of  it,"  said  he, 
quizzing  Clara  as  she  still  stood  talking  to  Sir 
George  Ramsay,  opposite. 

"  This  young  Mr.  Manning  seems  to  be 
wheeling  his  columns  after  doing  escort  duty 
to  no  purpose  for  considerable  time  past,"  said 
the  colonel. 

"  Yes,  he's  tacked  ship  sure  enough,  and  is 
standing  on  some  other  course  now.  They 
say  he  had  Miss  Edith  in  chase  for  a  while, 
till  Lord  Amidown  cut  him  out." 

"  One  would  think,"  continued  the  colonel, 
"  if  personal  looks  weighed  anything  with  a 
woman,  he  ought  to  have  succeeded  with 
Clara  or  Edith  either.  Egad,  how  finely  that 
fellow  would  look  well  mounted  and  in  full 
charge,"  added  the  soldier,  with  a  bit  of  pro 
fessional  pride  animating  his  features. 

"  Ay,  ay,  he's  a  clean  craft,  well  trimmed 
and  everything  taut.  Do  you  know,  colo 
nel,  that  once  or  twice  1  thought  I  detected  a 
look  of  the  quarter  deck  about  him  ?" 

"  Hang  the  fellow,  it's  the  girl  that  puzzles 
me,"  continued  the  other.  "  If  the  young 
East  Indian  made  out  so  poorly,  what  hope  is 
there  for  any  of  us  ?" 

"  True  enough,  if  he  couldn't  succeed,  who 
among  us  may  hope  to  fare  any  better?  That 
chap  is  far  to  windward  of  us,  living  here  in 
the  very  house,  and  being  able  to  take  advan- 
age  of  every  cap  full  of  wind  that  blows." 

"  And  yet  I  think  the  girl  loves  him,"  mus 
ed  the  colonel,  half  to  himself.  "  Why,  cap 
tain,  I  have  detected  before  now,  glances  from 
her  blue  eyes,  that  he  did  not  see,  and  expres 
sions  upon  her  face  while  his  was  averted, 
that  I  would  give  my  commission  to  be  able 
to  call  up  from  the  depths  of  her  young  heart." 

"  Why  look  ye,  colonel,  you'd  better  haul 
your  wind,  you  are  getting  among  the  break 
ers  here,  and  are  shoaling  your  water  fast. — 


Your  only  safety,  man,  lies  in  throwing  every 
thing  aback  at  once." 

"O,  hang  it,  captain,  I'm  not  ashamed  to 
own  it — I  love  the  girl  most  desperately,  there 
is  no  use  in  disguising  it.  I  only  wish  she 
would  give  me  a  chance  to  declare  myself." 

"Good,"  said  the  captain,  "I  like  that; 
show  your  colors  and  stick  to  them.  Lay  her 
alongside,  colonel,  and  open  your  batteries  ;  a 
chance  shot  may  do  the  business — who 
knows  ?" 

How  long  these  two  officers  would  have 
gone  on  thus  talking  upon  this  same  subject, 
each  after  the  style  of  his  own  profession,  it  is 
impossible  to  say,  had  not  the  subject  of  their 
remark  herself  approached  them,  and  by  a  few 
happily  conceived  remarks,  placed  both  of 
them  at  once  in  the  very  best  and  most  cheer 
ful  of  humors.  Her  quick  ear  had  overheard 
some  carelessly  uttered  remark  between  them, 
and  having  this  cue,  she  easily  guessed  the 
rest  of  the  matter.  Of  course,  neither  the 
soldier  nor  the  sailor  guessed  this,  but  cheer 
fully  acquiesced  in  the  disposition  of  them 
selves  by  Clara,  which  placed  them  at  differ 
ent  card  tables  in  opposite  parts  of  the  room, 
where  they  took  their  seats,  satisfied  to  help 
make  up  the  several  parties  at  whist,  and  in 
the  interest  of  the  game  to  forget  all  about 
love. 

Having  accomplished  this  little  bit  of  gen 
eralship,  as  Colonel  Freeman  would  have  call 
ed  it,  or  this  capital  bit  of  seamanship,  as  Cap 
tain  Sidney  would  have  expressed  it,  Clara 
went  and  seated  herself  opposite  to  Sir  Robert 
Brompton  as  his  partner,  at  which  Sir  Robert 
welcomed  her  with  an  honest  smile  of  affec 
tion,  and  whispered  to  his  next  neighbor, 
Lord  Hasgrove,  that  Clara  was  a  dear  good 
girl  the  charm  of  his  life. 

Suddenly  Sir  Robert  looked  uneasily  about 
him,  and  catching  Clara's  eye,  asked  her  anx 
iously  : 

"Where  is  Edith?" 

"Stepped  up  stairs  for  a  moment,  Sir  Rob 
ert;  she  is  not  fond  of  cards,  you  know.". 

"  Very  true,  I  forgot,"  said  Sir  Robert,  soon 
becoming  interested  in  the  game. 

It  might  have  been  eleven  o'clock,  when 
Sir  Robert  asked  this  question,  but  as  we 
have  said,  he  was  satisfied  by  Clara's  remark, 
and  it  was  after  twelve  before  he  again  thought 
of  the  matter.  When  he  did  so,  he  seemed 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


237 


a  little  puzzled,  but  thinking  perhaps  Edith 
was  over  fatigued  and  had  lain  down,  if  in 
deed  she  had  not  retired  altogether,  he  said 
no  more,  though  Clara  saw  that  a  shade  of 
disappointment  remained  on  his  face  until 
the  company  broke  up. 

As  the  company  were  leaving  Sir  Robert's 
house  that  night,  a  part  of  them  met  three 
persons  just  entering;  this  they  would  not  have 
noted  but  for  the  oddity  of  persons  arriving  at 
so  late  an  hour.  They  passed  up  and  enter 
ed  Sir  Robert's  library,  when  a  servant  was  at 
once  summoned  and  sent  for  Walter.  As  he 
entered,  the  utmost  consternation  was  depict 
ed  in  his  countenance.  There  stood  Lord 
Amidovvn,  and  his  friend,  who  had  now 
thrown  off  the  slouched  cap,  showing  the  face 
of  Edith  !  Behind  her,  stood  good  Mrs.  Mar- 
low,  who  had  been  her  companion,  and  who 
awaited  her  in  the  carriage,  while  she  per 
formed  her  errand  in  the  gaming  house. 

"  Edith  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  surprise,  "  what 
does  this  mean  ?  My  lord,  you  here  ?" 

"  Walter,  it  means  simply  this — that  our 
mutual  friend  is  without  a  home  ;  will  you  be 
to  him  as  you  have  so  long  been  to  me,  a 
brother?" 

"  Edith,  I  understand  you.  My  lord,  there 
is  my  hand." 

"  A  thousand  thanks,  Walter,"  said  Edith, 
"  and  now  his  lordship  will  tell  you  anything 
that  it  is  necessary  for  you  to  know.  Sir 
Robert  must  not  see  me  thus  ;  indeed  I  blush 
to  have  been  so  bold  even  with  you,  Walter. 
But  you  understand  me — I  know  you  do." 

"  Hasten  to  your  chamber,  Edith,  I  hear 
Sir  Robert  coming;  I  will  heed  your  wishes. 
Mrs.  Marlow,  let  Edith  pass  out,  and  do  you 
stand  between  her  and  the  stairs  as  Sir  Robert 
passes  in." 

The  housekeeper  did  as  desired,  and  in  a 
moment  after,  Sir  Robert  came  into  the  room, 
as  much  amazed  at  seeing  Lord  Amidown 
there  as  Walter  had  been. 

"My  lord!" 

"Sir  Robert!" 

Were  the  greetings  that  passed  between 
them,  when  a  pause  ensued,  during  which  Sir 
Robert  had  an  opportunity  to  examine,  his 
lordship,  who  presented  a  sad  picture  indeed. 

In  the  short  period  of  time  during  which  he 
had  been  completely  desperate,  and  utterly 
heedless  of  his  fate,  he  had  suffered  severely, 


as  well  physically  as  mentally,  and  he  sat 
there  now  with  a  pale  and  sunken  cheek, 
with  eyes  bent  upon  the  floor,  and  an  humble 
mien  altogether.  Something  very  like  a  re 
proach  was  upon  Sir  Robert's  tongue,  but  the 
picture  of  forlorn  misery  that  he  looked  upon, 
completely  disarmed  him.  He  gazed  upon 
him  there  but  for  a  single  moment,  his  heart 
was  touchedjandhe  said  kindly  but  sorrowfully: 

"  My  lord,  you  are  sadly  changed  since  you 
were  last  in  this  house." 

"Indeed,  indeed,  I  fear  so,"  said  Lord  Ami- 
down,  raising  his  eyes  and  gathering  courage 
by  the  kindness  of  Sir  Robert's  tone  of  voice. 
"  But,  ah !  sir,  perhaps  repentance  has  not 
come  too  late." 

"  It  is  never  too  late  to  reform"  said  Sir 
Robert,  with  animation,  and  a  change  coming 
over  his  entire  manner.  ft  Excuse  me,  my 
lord,  but  I  thought  some  other  purpose  had 
brought  you  here." 

"  To  borrow  money?  Well,  it  is  not  singu 
lar  that  you  should  have  thought  so  ;  but  I 
trust  a  better  purpose  and  a  higher  aim  are 
the  cause,  my  dear  sir." 

"  If  you  are  resolved  to  quit  the  gaming  ta 
ble  and  to  respect  yourself,"  said  Sir  Robert, 
warmly,  "  no  one  will  offer  you  the  hand  of 
friendship  sooner  than  myself." 

"  I  do  not  deserve,  this  kindness,"  said  Lord 
Amidown,  pressing  the  hand  warmly  that  Sir 
Robert  extended  to  him  ,  "  it  but  shows  me 
the  plainer  my  own  folly." 

"  No  more  of  this,  no  more  of  this,"  said 
Sir  Robert.  "  What  is  that,  Walter,  that  the 
good  book  says  ?  '  There  is  more  joy  over 
one  sinner  that  repenteth,  than  over — '  what 
is  it  ?" 

"  ' — Ninety  and  nine  just  persons  that  need 
no  repentance,'  "  said  Walter,  helping  his  pa 
tron  to  the  text. 

"  Very  good,  that  is  it.  But  here — order 
wine  and  refreshments  for  his  lordship  ;  why 
he  looks  half  famished,"  said  Sir  Robert,  ring 
ing  the  bell  lustily  as  he  spoke. 

"  You  overpower  me  with  your  kindness, 
Sir  Robert,"  said  Lord  Amidovvn,  touched  to 
the  very  heart. 

It  was  not  long  before  a  partial  explanation 
took  place  between  Sir  Robert  and  his  lord 
ship,  who  not  being  able  to  reveal  how  he  had 
been  induced  to  make  this  sudden  and  deter 
mined  resolve,  pretended  to  have  been  sum- 


233 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


moned  by  Edith — of  course,  Sir  Kobert  sup 
posing  this  was  done  by  a  note.  Having  no 
home,  no  place  to  go  to,  he  had  presumed  up 
on  his  old  friend's  hospitality,  where  he  should 
be  away  from  all  temptation  and  among  those 
he  loved. 

This  was  all  very  satisfactory  to  Sir  Robert, 
who  soon  after  left  Walter  and  his  lordship 
over  a  bottle  of  Madeira,  in  the  supper  room. 

"  Walter,"  said  his  lordship,  "  I  have  one 
favor  to  ask  of  you." 

«  Well,  my  lord." 

"  I  have  a  sister,  a  dear  forsaken,  unhappy 
sister,  who  has  used  every  means  to  reclaim 
me,  until,  guilty  and  debased  as  I  have  been, 
I  dared  no  longer  to  see  her.  And  at  last,  I 
have  even  feared  in  her  contempt  for  my  hab 
its,  she  would  refuse  to  see  me.  But  if  Edith 
will  see  me  (how  little  I  thought  such  a  thing 
possible  as  for  her  to  receive  me),  why  should 
not  my  sister,  bound  to  me  by  ties  of  blood  ?" 

"  She  will  forgive  all,  my  lord,  when  she 
is  once  convinced  of  your  reform." 

"  I  hope  so,  Walter.  Will  you  go  to  her 
and  plead  for  me  ?" 

"  With  all  my  heart." 

"  Immediately  ?" 

"  Ay,  with  to-morrow's  sun." 

"  O,  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  this 
kindness,"  he  replied. 

"  You  may  tell  her  the  truth,  Walter,  how 


very,  very  unhappy  I  was  at  the  outset,  and 
that,  once  steeped  in  crime,  for  I  acknowledge 
it  deserves  the  name,  I  had  not  the  courage 
to  turn  back  again  and  seek  the  path  from 
which  I  had  so  widely  strayed.  But  I  will 
not  dictate  to  you ;  use  all  your  own  judg 
ment  in  my  behalf,  Walter,  and  though  she 
may  be  offended  and  justly  too,  I  trust  you 
will  make  my  peace  for  me." 

"  I  will  use  my  best  endeavors  to  do  so,  my 
lord,"  said  Walter. 

"  Once  more,  Walter,  I  thank  you  with  all 
my  heart,"  said  his  friend. 

Neither  Edith  nor  Lord  Amidown  could 
have  slept  that  night  without  a  mutual  expla 
nation  having  taken  place,  and  by  the  man 
agement  of  Mrs.  Marlow,  Edith,  having  as 
sumed  her  proper  attire,  met  his  lordship  in 
the  drawing-room.  We  need  not  draw  a  pic 
ture  here  of  that  scene  that  reviewed  all  of  the 
past ;  we  need  not  explain  how  contrite,  how 
penitent  and  grateful  his  lordship  was,  nor  how 
forgiving  and  gentle  Edith  was.  No,  no,  it  is 
better  that  we  draw  the  veil  over  that  meeting, 
and  let  the  reader  picture  it  in  his  own  heart. 
Enough  that  they  were  happy. 

When  Edith  knelt  at  last  that  night  by  her 
bed-side,  how  different  was  the  tide  that  flow 
ed  through  her  heart,  from  that  Avhich  had  af 
fected  her  when  Clara,  a  few  months  before, 
had  surprised  her  in  prayer  ! 


CHAPTER   XLI1. 


THE    THIRD    CHOICE. 


Alas  !  our  young  affections  run  to  waste, 
Or  water  but  the  desert. 


CHILDE   HAROLD. 


ACCORDING  to  his  promise,  Walter  Manning 
on  the  following  day  sought  Lord  Amidown's 
sister  at  the  residence  of  a  noble  relative,  for 
she  had  now,  alas,  by  her  brother's  improvi 
dence,  no  house  of  her  own.  In  his  madness 
for  play,  her  brother  had  not  only  sacrificed 
his  own  fortune,  but  also  hers,  of  which  he 
had  been  left  the  guardian  by  their  deceased 
parent.  This  was  very  hard — it  was  most 
cruel,  but  yet  Lady  Josephine  Amidown  had 
never  complained  in  a  single  word  of  her 
brother's  treatment  of  her,  though  her  pride 
was  sorely  wounded  by  the  reverse  that  it  had 
in  this  way  caused  to  her.  She  had  too  much 
heart  in  such  a  dilemma,  to  grieve  for  anything 
else  but  for  her  brother,  who  had  become,  as 
it  were,  a  monomaniac  upon  the  subject  of 
gaming,  and  was  bringing  shame  upon  himself 
and  upon  his  father's  honored  name. 

Her  reproaches  had  been  addressed  to  him 
during  the  earlier  period  of  his  extravagance 
and  dissipation,  in  such  gentleness  as  to  have 
nearly  broken  his  heart ;  but  still  he  had  play 
ed  on,  sadly  hoping  to  win  back  at  last  what 
he  had  lost.  Latterly  her  brother  had  become 
so  poverty-stricken,  so  debased  and  humbled 
in  his  own  estimation,  and  so  loaded  with  re 


proach  by  every  one,  that  he  had  even  avoided 
her,  his  only  remaining  near  relative.  Indeed 
so  isolated  had  he  been  as  it  regarded  his 
friends,  that  she  did  not  even  know  where  she 
might  find  him,  and  there  were  always  busy- 
bodies  enough  at  hand  to  falsify  her,  and  make 
him  believe  that  she  had  disclaimed  all  rela 
tionship  with  him. 

Without  blaming  her  in  the  least  for  this, 
Lord  Amidown  could  yet  hardly  believe  these 
stories  of  her  disowning  him  altogether,  and 
yet  when  he  reviewed  his  late  conduct,  he  felt 
so  debased  and  degraded  that  he  hardly  dared 
to  meet  her,  surrounded,  as  he  knew  she  must 
be,  by  those  who  were  ready  to  heap  reproaches 
upon  him  for  his  late  dissolute  and  reckless 
habits.  He  realized  only  too  bitterly  the  un 
faithful  manner  in  which  he  had  discharged 
the  trust  as  to  her  property,  and  that  he  had 
been  little  better  than  a  thief  in  the  manner 
in  which  he  had  taken  it  from  her.  Therefore 
it  was  that  he  desired  to  send  Walter,  as  we 
have  seen,  to  explain  and  intercede  for  him. 

What  was  Walter's  surprise,  on  meeting  the 
lady,  to  recognize  in  her  one  to  whom  he  had 
done  a  most  important  service  but  a  few  years 
before,  in  the  park.  It  was  at  a  time  when 


240 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


Lady  Josephine,  then  almost  a  child,  was 
driving  with  her  mother  in  Hyde  Park — the 
horses,  startled  at  some  accidental  noise, 
sprang  forward,  tossing  off  the  driver  from  his 
seat,  and  dashing  off  at  a  fearful  speed  with 
the  mother  and  daughter,  seated  alone  in  the 
open  barouche.  By  a  most  fortunate  and 
energetic  effort,  Walter  had  succeeded,  at  the 
imminent  risk  of  his  life,  in  stopping^he  vehi 
cle  and  helping  the  ladies  out  in  safety,  for 
which  services  he  received  the  grateful  thanks 
of  both  mother  and  daughter.  That  daugh 
ter  was  the  Lady  Josephine. 

"  I  think  we  have  met  before,"  said  the 
lady,  as  he  introduced  himself  to  her. 

"  We  have,  lady,  but  where,  I  cannot  say ; 
it  was  in  England,  of  course  ?" 

"  Yes,  in  the  park,  some  years  since,  when 
you  stopped  our  horses,  as  they  were  running 
away  with  my  mother  and  myself.  We  never 
knew  who  you  were,  or  we  should  have  ten 
dered  you  more  formal  thanks." 

"I  remember  well  the  occasion,  now  you 
refer  to  it,"  replied  Walter.  "  I  knew  not  the 
names  of  those  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  assist 
at  the  time,  but  rejoice  that  it  should  happen 
to  be  the  sister  of  my  friend." 

"  Do  you  mean  my  brother  ?"  asked  Lady 
Josephine,  with  a  sad  voice. 
"  Yes,  lady." 

"  Ah,  sir,  he  is  very  unhappy  now  ;  if  you 
know  him,  I  need  not  say  any  more." 

"  I  come  to  bring  you  news  of  him,"  said 
Walter,  "  most  cheering  news." 

"  Indeed ;  it  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen 
or  heard  directly  from  him.  I  pray  you  will 
proceed." 

Then  Walter,  after  a  few  preliminary  re 
marks,  told  her  how  her  brother  had  loved  the 
beautiful  Edith  Brompton,  and  explained  to 
her  the  check  that  a  strange  misfortune  had 
given  to  that  affection,  in  the  delirium  that 
had  afflicted  Edith  for  months,  and  which,  it 
was  thought  at  the  time,  would  never  leave 
her.  He  showed  her  how  naturally  such  a 
state  of  things  had  at  last  driven  her  brother 
to  seek  for  excitement  and  forgetfulness  in 
play,  and,  that  once  deluded  and  seduced  by 
the  winning  game  of  chance,  he  had  gone  on, 
from  step  to  step,  unwittingly,  until  it  was  too 
late  to  turn  back,  all  the  while  being  impelled 
by  the  hope  of  once  more  winning  back  the 
heavy  amount  that  he  had  lost.  Walter  was 


eloquent,  for  he  deeply  realized  his  subject, 
and  the  lady  followed  him  with  a  most  absorb 
ed  interest,  as  he  finally  related  to  her  how 
quickly  he  had  responded  to  the  call  of  love 
and  duty,  urged  in  person  by  the  devoted 
Edith. 

All  this  was  news  to  Lady  Josephine — she 
had  never  until  this  moment  heard  one  word 
of  her  brother's  love,  or  disappointment.  His 
sensitive  mind  was  of  such  a  character  that 
he  could  not  have  revealed  his  feelings  re 
garding  the  object  of  his  affection  even  to  his 
sister  ;  besides  which,  she  did  not  move  in  a 
circle  of  society  that  brought  her  where  she 
would  be  likely  to  hear  the  gossip  that  the 
world  promulgated  concerning  her  brother  and 
Edith.  She  told  Walter  that  had  she  known 
all  this,  much  astonishment  and  even  a  degree 
of  regret  would  have  been  spared  to  her  own 
breast — for  she  would  then  have  seen  that  her 
brother  was  rather  forced  by  circumstances 
into  his  unfortunate  career,  and  that  he  had 
not  assumed  it  a  willing  victim,  from  any 
natural  depravity  or  love  of  such  practices. 

"  Henry  should  have  told  me  of  these 
things,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  "  and  I  could 
have  offered  him  consolation,  at  least — he 
surely  might  have  let  me  known  of  his  wound 
ed  spirits." 

"  And  yet,  lady,"  said  Walter,  looking  into 
her  spirited  black  eyes,  "you  can  easily  make 
allowance  for  the  delicacy  that  caused  him  to 
withhold  these  matters  even  from  you." 

"True,  Mr.  Manning,"  she  answered, 
quickly.  "I  know  my  brother's  sensitive  dis 
position,,  and  you  speak  like  one  who  knows 
him  also,  in  thus  excusing  him  on  such 
grounds." 

"  For  two  years  past,"  said  Walter,  "  we 
have  been  frequently  together." 

"  Did  I  understand  you,  that  you  reside  in 
the  same  house  with  the  Bromptons  ?"  asked 
Lady  Josephine. 

"That  is  my  home." 

"And  consequently  you  must  know  the 
lady  whom  Henry  loves,  as  well  as  he  does 
himself?" 

"  I  know  her,  lady,  as  though  she  were  my 
own  sister,"  said  Walter. 

"I  trust  you  will  not  consider  me  inquisi 
tive,"  said  the  Lady  Josephine. 

"By  no  means." 

"  May  I  ask  you,  then,  the  general  disposi- 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


241 


tion  and  character  of  one  who  has  gained  such 
influence  over  my  brother  ?"  asked  the  lady, 
with  a  heightened  color,  at  the  liberty  which 
she  took. 

"  Most  certainly,"  replied  Walter,  frankly; 
"  and  it  will  afford  me  pleasure  to  answer  you 
honestly." 

Walter  then  spoke  of  Edith  Brompton  as 
one  only  could  who  knew  her  as  well  as  him 
self.  He  did  not  dwell  upon  her  beauty, 
though  his  feelings  prompted  him  to  do  it  am 
ple  justice ;  but  her  sweetness  of  disposition, 
her  retiring  grace  and  loveliness  of  deport 
ment,  the  native  delicacy  of  her  mind,  her 
intellect,  cultivation,  and  taste — all  these  he 
depicted  in  most  eloquent  terms  to  Lord  Ami- 
down's  sister.  He  was  incited  to  speak  the 
more  minutely  and  fully,  as  he  observed  the 
marked  interest  that  the  Lady  Josephine 
evinced  in  all  that  related  to  Edith. 

"Why,  Mr.  Manning,"  said  she,  as  he 
closed,  "  you  eulogize  the  lady  in  such  flatter 
ing  terms  that  one  would  count  you  the  lover, 
rather  than  my  brother  Henry." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  lady,  if  I  have  appear 
ed  prejudiced  too  strongly  in  her  favor;  but 
one  cannot  speak  with  indifference  of  such  a 
person  as  we  have  referred  to.  You  will 
find  Edith  to  be  all  I  have  described." 

"  You  rejoice  me  much,  Mr.  Manning,  by 
the  picture  that  you  have  drawn,"  she  replied, 
sincerely,  "and  it  delights  me  to  know  that  my 
brother's  choice  has  fallen  upon  so  worthy 
and  pleasing  an  object." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  love  her  as  soon 
as  you  meet,"  answered  Walter. 

"  Mr.  Manning,  I  trust  you  will  excuse  me 
still  farther,  if—" 

The  lady  hesitated,  as  though  she  had  been 
led  to  ask  a  question  that  had  suggested  itself 
without  sufficient  thought  as  to  its  propriety, 
and  after  it  was  half  put,  checked  herself  as 
she  realized  its  character. 

"  I  will  thank  you,  madam,  to  lay  aside  all 
ceremony  with  me,"  said  Walter,  observing 
her  embarrassment,  "and  consider  the  fact 
that  I  come  from  your  brother  to  be  a  suffi 
cient  guarantee  of  my  respectful  duty." 

"  I  was  about  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Manning,  in 
my  natural  interest  for  a  family  in  which  my 
brother  is,  and  has  been  so  intimate,  what  re 
lationship  you  bear  to  Sir  Robert  Bromp 
ton  ?" 

16 


"  None  at  all,  by  blood,  lady ;  and  yet  very 
nearly  allied  by  the  warmest  ties  of  friendship. 
We  met  in  the  East  Indies,  where  it  was  in 
my  power  to  serve  Sir  Robert  professionally. 
We  were  cast  away  together  at  sea,  and 
amidst  a  singular  combination  of  vicissitudes 
we  became  friends.  With  a  princely  fortune, 
Sir  Robert  couples  a  spirit  of  unbounded  gen 
erosity,  and  as  I  was  an  orphan, and  striving  for 
a  position  in  life,  he  generously  adopted  me, 
and  has  ever  treated  me  through  my  collegi 
ate  studies  and  pursuit  of  the  law,  as  though 
I  were  indeed  and  truly  his  own  son.  You 
would  like  Sir  Robert,  too,  lady,  for  under  a 
rough  exterior,  he  hides  a  heart  so  kind,  a 
spirit  so  generous,  and  a  character  so  truly  no 
ble,  that  he  must  be  known  to  be  appre 
ciated." 

"Your  history  is  a  remarkable  one,  Mr. 
Manning,"  said  the  lady.  "  Did  your  parents 
die  abroad  ?" 

"My  father  was  governor  of  the  eastern 
division  of  India,  at  the  time  when  a  singular 
accident  befell  him — one  which  deprived  both 
him  and  my  mother  of  life,"  answered  Wal 
ter. 

"  By  violence,  Mr.  Manning  ?"  asked  the 
lady,  evidently  much  interested  in  anything 
relating  to  him  before  her. 

"  Yes,  lady,  by  the  attack  of  an  anaconda, 
in  the  jungle,"  he  answered. 

"  An  anaconda !"  repeated  the  lady  Jose 
phine,  in  amazement. 

"  A  story  which  I  will  relate  to  you  at  some 
future  time,  if  you  desire  it,"  said  Walter, 
throwing  out  a  hint  that  might  serve  for  a 
continuance  of  their  acquaintance,  so  auspici 
ously  begun. 

"  Nothing  could  interest  me  more  than  to 
have  you  do  so,"  said  the  lady.     "  You  seem 
to  have  passed  a  very  eventful  life  for  one  so 
young  as  you  are,  Mr.  Manning." 
f"  Somewhat  so,"  replied  Walter. 

After  a  few  moments'  pause,  he  rose  to  go, 
and  as  he  did  so,  said : 

"  I  am  the  happy  bearer,  1  believe,  of  your 
forgiveness  to  his  lordship,  your  brother." 

"  Certainly.  Tell  him,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
Manning,  that  I  shall  await  him  impatiently, 
and  that  he  is  the  same  to  me  as  ever.  There 
are  but  two  of  us  left,  and  surely  we  should  be 
all  that  brother  and  sister  can  be  to  each  oth 


er.' 


242 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


Walter  bowed  low,  and  was  about  to  turn 
from  the  apartment. 

"  It  will  give  me  pleasure  to  meet  you  at 
any  time,  Mr.  Manning,"  said  the  lady,  frank 
ly,  "and  to  fully  acknowledge  the  indebted 
ness  I  am  under  to  you  in  my  brother's  be 
half." 

"  Thank  you,  lady,  I  shall  do  myself  the 
honor  to  call,"  said  Walter,  with  a  pleasure 
expressed  in  his  countenance  that  the  lady 
could  hardly  have  mistaken. 

The  fact  was  that  Walter  was  at  once  smit 
ten  with  the  person  and  engaging  manner  of 
Lord  Amidown's  sister.  It  was  not  her  per 
sonal  beauty,  thojgh  that  was  by  no  means  of 
an  ordinary  character,  but  it  was  the  peculiar 
manner,  distingue  in  every  respect,  and  the 
polished  air  of  the  high-bred  lady,  that  capti 
vated  him.  The  confidence  and  dignified 
self-possession  that  birth  and  rank  impart, 
were  most  conspicuous  in  Josephine  Ami- 
down,  mingled  with  a  soft  and  lady-like  ex 
pression  and  bearing,  that  struck  the  observer 
at  once. 

Walter  had  been  but  little  accustomed  to 
female  society.  Indeed  the  extent  of  his  cir 
cle  was  scarcely  beyond  Edith  and  Clara's  so 
ciety,  with  a  few  of  their  more  intimate 
friends.  True,  both  Edith  and  Clara  lacked 
the  high-bred  manner  that  was  so  natural  and 
conspicuous  in  Lord  Amidown's  sister,  but  yet 
after  all,  they  evinced  an  unassuming  modesty 
of  deportment,  scarcely  less  striking  even  with 
Walter.  He  made  this  very  comparison  in 
his  own  mind,  but  he  had  already  lost  his 
heart. 

Clara's  apparent  coldness  had  effectually 
weaned  him  from  her  side,  at  least  as  far  as 
love  was  concerned,  but  never  was  a  brother 
more  assiduous  in  his  attention  and  regard, 
than  was  Walter  still  to  both  Edith  and  Cla 
ra.  Maybe  it  was  ficklness  in  Walter  Man 
ning,  thus  to  transfer  his  regard  ;  still,  if^  he 
was  sincere,  it  was  none  the  less  true  and  hon 
est  for  its  impromptu  character.  A  man  rare 
ly  marries  his  first  choice ;  he  gains  experi 
ence  by  the  very  intercourse  thus  induced, 
and  chooses  at  last,  as  a  matter  of  course,  with 
more  circumspection,  and  perhaps  with  better 
prospect  of  after  happiness. 

On  the  part  of  the  lady  it  must  be  admitted 
that,  in  the  first  place,  the  very  agreeable  busi 
ness  on  which  he  had  come  to  her,  that  of  an 


nouncing  her  brother's  reform,  had  gone  far 
towards  creating  a  warm  interest  in  Walter  at 
the  outset.  Then  there  was  the  memory  of 
his  important  service  rendered  years  before  in 
the  Park,  added  to  which  were  the  influence 
of  his  remarkable  beauty  of  form  and  feature, 
his  easy,  gentlemanly  address,and  the  romance 
that  at  once  attached  itself  to  his  character  af 
ter  the  conversation  that  Lady  Josephine  had 
enjoyed  with  him ;  all  combined,  served  to 
render  the  gentle  lady  warmly  interested  in 
him  at  once. 

Walter  was  a  shrewd  observer  of  human 
nature,  and  could  read  the  face  as  well  as 
many  an  older  physiognomist,  and  he  realized 
fully,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  that  he  had  created 
a  sensation  in  the  lady's  breast.  Not  that  he 
plumed  himself  at  all  upon  this,  but  that  it 
made  him  most  happy  to  realize  the  fact. — 
When  he  had  returned  home  and  told  the  re 
sult  of  his  visit  to  Lord  Amidown,  he  thought 
that  Edith  would  be  the  first  one  to  ask  him 
concerning  the  lady,  whom  they  knew  he  had 
just  been  to  visit  in  his  lordship's  behalf.  But 
Walter  was  mistaken  ;  it  was  not  Edith  who 
asked  him  of  the  result  of  the  visit,  but  Clara 
herself. 

"  Did  you  see  Lord  Amidown's  sister  this 
morning,  Walter  ?" 

"  I  did,  Clara,"  he  said,  while  his  face  ex 
pressed  the  joy  that  he  had  realized  there. 

"  And  what  kind  of  a  lady  is  she,  Walter 
How  did  she  impress  you  ?" 

"  Clara,  she  is  most  lovely,''  said  Walter, 
honestly. 

"  Did  she  receive  you  kindly  ?"  continued 
the  fair  girl. 

"  Most  kindly,  Clara,  and  bade  me  come 
again,"  he  replied. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Clara,  thoughtful 
ly;  "you  will  go  of  course,  Walter,  wont 
you?" 

"  Why,  yes,  I  presume  so,"  replied  Walter, 
smiling  at  her  earnestness. 

"  Did  Walter  lose  his  heart  this  morning  ?'> 
asked  Edith. 

"  Yes,"  said  Clara,  "  I  believe  he  does  plead 
guilty." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  haven't  said  one  word, 
I  assure  you,  Edith." 

The  quick  witted  Clara  saw  by  the  expres 
sion  of  his  face,  that  Walter  had  been  strong 
ly  impressed  with  the  lady,  and  so  she  said 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


243 


she  was  glad  of  it,  but  only  for  his  sake,  not 
for  her  own.  But  Walter  did  not  understand 
the  working  of  her  heart ;  he  took  her  at  her 
word,  and  really  believed  that  she  was  glad, 
without  a  qualification,  and  that  perhaps  she 
was  pleased  to  be  rid  entirely  of  the  impor 
tunities  that  he  had  pressed  upon  her.  Ah ! 
Walter,  you  never  knew  the  full  wealth  of 
Clara's  heart,  or  the  devoted  tenderness  that 
dwelt  there.  That  heart  was  really  yours  al 
ready,  and  had  it  been  one  iota  less  true  to 
itself  and  its  love,  it  would  have  been  yours  in 
all  respects  !  But,  as  it  was,  even  in  her  love 
for  Walter,  she  rejoiced  to  see  him  thus  affect 
ed  towards  such  a  person  as  the  lady  Jose 
phine,  for  she  loved  Walter  too  well  and  too 
sincerely  to  be  selfish  in  her  affection.  Her 
own  delicacy  and  truth  would  not  permit  her 
to  indulge  her  love  for  him  openly,  and  she 
had  religiously  adopted  such  a  line  of  conduct  as 
should  cool  his  ardor  for  her,  and  which  had 
succeeded  exactly  as  she  had  wished  to  have 
it.  And  yet  all  the  while  she  was  sacrificing 
her  own  heart. 

She  showed  none  of  the  inward  grief  that 
she  experienced,  either  to  Walter  or  to  any 
one  else,  but  suppressed  all  outward  token  of 
this  as  she  had  done  of  her  love  for  him. — 
Outwardly  she  was  just  as  merry  and  cheer 
ful  as  before,  striving  to  contribute  to  his  plea 


sure  and  the  happiness  of  every  one  about 
her,  while  her  midnight  pillow,  alas !  was 
often  wet  with  tears,  sad  scalding  tears,  in  re 
pentance  for  h,er  youthful  indiscretion  ! 

"  Walter,  you  saw  Josephine  ?"  asked  Lord 
Amidown,  eagerly. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  explained  for  me  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  did  she  say,  Walter  ?  I  know  by 
your  countenance  what  she  said ;  I  need  not 
ask  you,"  said  his  lordship. 

"  She  told  me  to  bear  her  forgiveness  to 
you,  and  tell  you  that  she  should  await  your 
coming  impatiently." 

"  And  forgive  me  all  ?" 

"Ay,  everything." 

Lorn  Amidown  heard  Walter's  report,  and 
was  within  the  next  hour  in  his  sister's  arms. 
After  a  full  and  happy  explanation  upon  other 
matters,  she  learned  from  him  who  Walter 
was,  and  many  particulars  about  him  and  Sir 
Robert's  household.  To  be  sure,  Lord  Ami- 
down  drew  Walter's  picture  with  a  partial 
hand,  but  the  lady  saw  it  through  eyes  that 
were  equally  prepossessed  in  his  favor,  and 
Walter  Manning,  had  he  exactly  understood 
the  case,  could  hardly  have  desired  to  stand 
better  than  he  already  did  in  the  estimation  of 
the  beautiful  lady  Josephine  Amidown. 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 


THE    BLOODLESS     MURDER. 


If  it  were  done,  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well 
It  were  done  quickly. 


MACBETH. 


IF  any  one  had  followed  the  man  in  black 
who  had  been  playing  with  Lord  Amidown  at 
the  time  when  he  was  so  signally  rescued 
from  the  fraud  that  was  attempted  upon  him, 
he  would  have  found,  that,  after  threading  the 
many  streets  and  lanes  that  intervened  be 
tween  St.  James  street  and  the  quarters  of  the 
famed  fortune-teller,  Madame  Duval,  he  enter 
ed  the  door  of  the  building  with  the  air  of  one 
who  was  quite  at  home,  and  that  he  breathed 
more  freely,  as  though  he  had  feared  all  the 
while  that  he  might  have  been  pursued,  or 
watched  by  some  curious  witness  of  the  late 
scene. 

Passing  in  through  the  outer  hall  and  ante 
room,  he  walked  at  once  into  the  apartment 
where  Sir  Robert  Brompton  and  his  party  had 
consulted  the  presiding  genius  of  the  place. — 
The  room  was  dimly  lighted  now,  and  looked 
if  possible  more  gloomy  and  dismal  than  it 
had  done  when  the  reader  was  here  before. — 
Throwing  himself  upon  a  side  couch,  he  cast 
off  the  hat  he  wore,  and  brushed  back  the 
hair  from  his  throbbing  temples,  discovering 
the  face  of  Karl  Blasius  !  The  robber,  the 
pirate,  the  house-breaker,  the  gambler,  and  the 
fortune-teller — for  all  these  he  had  personated 
in  our  varied  plot,  though  as  yet  all  knew  him 
not  in  these  combined  characters. 

Edith  knew  him  when  he  turned  his  face 


upon  her  as  she  seized  the  dice,  though  he  did 
not  penetrate  her  singular  disguise ;  she  re 
cognized  him  in  a  moment  as  Bill  the  Bold. 
Sir  Robert  had  known  him,  as  we  have  seen, 
as  robber,  pirate,  and  gambler,  but  he  suspect 
ed  not  the  fortune-teller,  who  knew  so  much 
of  his  private  business,  to  be  he  whom  he  had 
first  met  as  a  traveller  at  the  little  inn  of 
Mornentz,  in  the  valley  of  the  Rhine.  But 
thus  it  was,  and  there  now  sat  with  wrinkled 
face  and  frowning  brow,  the  deep-dyed  villain 
who  has  acted  so  prominent  a  part  in  the 
thread  of  our  story,  one  to  whom  vice  had 
become  a  second  nature. 

"  How  strange  it  was,"  mused  he,  aloud, 
"  that  interference,  and  by  a  mere  stripling, 
too  !  I  doubt  much  but  I  should  have  felled 
him  on  the  spot,  but  for  those  eyes  ! — ah  ! 
those  eyes  !  how  strange  that  I  cannot  shake 
off  their  influence.  Never,  save  in  Edith  and 
Clara,  have  I  met  them  since  I  parted  with 
her."  As  the  robber  spoke  thus,  he  covered 
his  face  within  his  hands,  and  seemed  lost  in 
the  past. 

At  last  he  seemed  to  arouse  himself  from 
the  thoughts  that  absorbed  him. 

"  But  this  young  Lord  Amidown — I'll  re 
member  him,  and  have  my  revenge  yet.  He 
has  paid  me  well,  however,  and  I  count  two- 
thirds  of  his  estate  already,  in  bags  of  gold. — 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


245 


He  will  be  back,  if  only  for  an  explanation, 
when  I  can  easily  pacify  him.  The  love  of 
play  is  too  deeply  rooted  in  him  to  be  easily 
overcome.  But  who  could  the  owner  of  those 
eyes  be  ?"  That  was  strange,  very,  very 
strange.  I  should  know  them  were  I  on  the 
rack." 

It  was  quite  late  now,  and  no  noise  gave 
token  of  any  one  being  near  ;  he  turned  the  key 
of  the  door,  and  approaching  a  panel  in  the 
wall,  nearly  behind  the  spot  where  the  chair 
stood  which  he  occupied  in  the  character  of 
the  fortune-teller,  he  pushed  aside  the  panel 
and  unlocked  a  door  that  opened  into  an 
oven-shaped  cavity,  packed  as  full  of  leathern 
and  cloth  bags  of  some  ten  inches  high,  by 
four  to  six  wide,  as  it  could  hold.  These  he 
removed  from  the  hole  one  by  one,  and  took 
account  of  the  labelled  value  on  each.  The 
amount  must  have  been  very  great. 

At  last,  when  he  had  finished,  and  added  up 
the  sums  into  one  grand  total,  he  looked  from 
his  paper  to  the  bags,  and  from  the  bags  back 
again,  ,and  throwing  himself  back  into  a  seat, 
surveyed  the  collected  treasure.  There  seem 
ed  to  be  a  struggle  of  feelings  in  his  heart ;  at 
one  moment  his  countenance  would  express 
the  miser's  glow  of  satisfaction  at  beholding 
his  secret  treasure,  and  in  the  next  a  contemp 
tuous  curl  of  the  lip  seemed  to  say,  "  what  do  I 
care  for  all  this  ?  what  good  can  it  do  me,  with 
my  feelings,  and  my  taste  ?"  and  this  was  in 
deed  the  thought  that  moved  him  now.  All 
this  golden  treasure  that  had  been  gained  by 
such  outlay  of  mental  and  physical  labor,  by 
the  cunning  trade  which  he  had  adopted  and 
so  successfully  carried  on,  and  by  the  wily 
tricks  of  the  gamester  ;  what  did  it  all  amount 
to,  now  that  he  possessed  it  ?  Why,  the  pa 
per  in  his  hand  told  the  story  ;  it  amounted  to 
figures,  to  a  given  amount — nothing  more. — 
He  could  reap  no  benefit  from  it;  it  could  do 
him  no  good.  All  he  could  enjoy,  or  all  he 
wanted  after  the  excesses  he  had  participated 
in,  could  be  procured  for  a  very  small  sum. 

"  Strange  that  after  all  the  vicissitudes  of 
my  unhappy  life,  I  should  come  to  be  a  miser, 
for  surely  I  love  to  think  this  gold  is  mine — 
did  I  say  mine?  yes,  by  possession,  if  not  by 
right !  And  I  like  to  take  it  out  of  its  hiding 
place  and  count  it  over  and  over  again.  Why 
surely,  Karl  Blasius,  who  has  been  almost 
everything  else,  is  now  a  miser!" 


At  this  moment  a  noise  was  heard  in  the 
ante-room,  and  soon  after  a  knocking  at  the 
door  of  the  room,  by  some  person  who  sought 
to  obtain  an  entrance.  The  bags  were  silentr 
ly,  but  quickly,  replaced,  the  door  once  more 
locked  and  the  panel  closed,  when  the  robber 
approached  the  entrance  of  the  room,  and  un 
locked  it.  As  he  did  so,  a  man  half-walked 
and  half-staggered  into  the  room,  and  threw 
himself  upon  a  seat,  quite  as  much  at  home 
as  the  first  comer. 

The  man  was  rough  and  weather-beaten  in 
the  expression  of  his  face,  with  heavy  eye 
brows  and  coarse,  vulgar  lips.  He  had  evi 
dently  been  drinking  hard,  and  was  almost  too 
drunk  to  walk. 

"  You  are  drunk  again,"  said  the  robber, 
looking  at  him  with  contempt.  "  Hardhead, 
you  are  a  fool  to  get  in  this  condition  so  often. 
You  will  expose  yourself  sometime  by  this 
means." 

The  robber  addressed  him  thus,  good  natur- 
edly,  but  rather  reproachfully.  It  was  indeed 
our  old  acquaintance  of  the  tap-rooms,  Hard 
head,  who  personated  for  the  fortune-teller  the 
character  of  the  Nubian  slave,  as  well  as  as 
sisted  him  in  various  other  matters  that  re 
quired  his  aid  and  cunning  to  consummate. — 
He  seemed  to  be  more  than  usually  intoxicat 
ed  to-night,  and  to  have  been  prompted  by  a 
spirit  of  bravado  or  independence. 

"  Look  here,  Bill,"  said  he,  "  you  pay  me 
pretty  well  for  this  business,  but  it  strikes  me 
that  I  do  the  hardest  part  of  it,  and  I  want  to 
go  partnerships,  and  share  equal." 

"  Hallo  !  here's  rebellion.  Why,  Hardhead, 
I  have  been  the  making  of  you ;  took  you 
when  you  were  just  about  starving,  and 
gave  you  a  good  round  salary,  just  for  old  ac 
quaintance  sake." 

"  0,  gammon." 

"  But  is  it  not  so  ?"  said  the  robber,  trying 
to  soothe  the  drunken  obstinacy  of  Hardhead. 

"  Gammon,  gammon,"  repeated  the  other, 
with  his  finger  at  his  nose. 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  the  truth,  Hardhead,"  said 
the  robber,  lighting  a  pipe  to  smoke  as  he  said 
so. 

"  Bill,  didn't  1  hear  you  jingling  bags  of 
gold  while  I  was  at  the  door  there,  and  haven't 
I  heard  you  doin'  the  same  thing  a  number  of 
times,  and  don't  I  know  you've  got  a  pile  stow 
ed  away  snugly,  out  of  all  these  sums  that 


246 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


you're  allers  a  getin'  from  the  visiters  ?  O,  I 
I  knows  all  about  it." 

"Well,  you  silly  fellow,  'sposing  I  have 
saved  a  little,  what  then?" 

"  Why,  I  want  half,  that's  what  I  do,"  said 
Hardhead. 

"  Half?"  repeated  the  robber,  derisively ; 
"  I  think  I  heard  you  say  half." 

"  And  I  must  have  it,  too,  or  I  shall  peach, 
that's  all." 

"  Do  what  ?"  said  the  robber,  quickly. 

"  Peach." 

"  Betray  me,  do  you  mean  ?"  he  continued, 
earnestly,  with  his  eyes  bent  on  Hardhead. 

"  Unless  you  poney  over  half  the  blunt,  I 
shall  block  your  game." 

"  Do  you  remember  our  oath,  the  binding 
promise  we  exchanged  ?" 

"  O,  gammon,"  said  the  other. 

The  robber  had  put  out  his  pipe  as  Hard 
head  went  on,  and  he  now  sat  regarding  him 
with  an  expression  of  a  demoniacal  character. 
The  whole  expression  of  his  countenance  had 
undergone  the  most  marked  change,  though 
his  voice  indicated  no  peculiar  change  in  his 
feelings,  yet  he  seemed  to  be  weighing  in  his 
mind  some  matter  of  a  startling  character. — 
He  addressed  Hardhead  and  told  him  that  he 
had  better  retire  for  the  night,  as  it  was  al 
ready  nearly  half-past  two.  The  half-drunken 
man  seemed  to  be  himself  inclined  to  do  so, 
and  observing  that  he  wanted  Bill,  as  he  call 
ed  him,  to  get  all  ready  to  hand  over  the  blunt 
in  the  morning,  he  staggered  to  his  room, 
which  led  out  of  the  one  they  were  in. 

The  robber  closed  the  door  after  Hardhead, 
and  then  turned  and  walked  his  apartment 
with  a  thoughtful  brow.  He  was  thinking  of 
•what  Hardhead  had  said,  and  how  completely 
he  was  in  his  power  ! 

"  If  the  villain  should  breathe  but  a  single 
word  to  the  police,  there  is  an  end  to  every 
thing  ;  my  time  would  be  up,  and  nothing 
could  save  me.  I  have  marked  a  growing 
disposition  in  him  to  play  the  master,  or  equal 
at  least,  for  some  time  past,  and  now  a  little 
liquor  brings  him  out  in  his  true  colors.  It  is 
strange  that  1  have  not  before  thought  how 
completely  I  am  in  his  power." 

As  he  thought  these  matters  over,  he  paus 
ed  and  listened  before  the  door  where  Hard 
head  had  so  lately  entered.  All  was  still, 
are  the  hard  breathing  of  the  sleeper,  &  ho 


was  wrapped  in  deep  insensibility,  deeper 
from  the  effects  of  liquor  than  the  ordinary 
course  of  nature  would  have  created.  Listen 
ing  for  a  moment,  the  robber  turned  away 
again,  and  continued  his  troubled  and  anxious 
walk  to  and  fro  in  the  mystic  reception  room. 
It  was  very  dark  and  dreary  there  ;  the  grim 
idols  looked  in  the  darkness  as  though  they 
were  laughing  at  each  other,  and  the  Chinese 
characters  upon  the  wall  had  assumed  the 
shape  of  Lilliputians,  and  seemed  a  miniature 
army  walking  on  the  wall.  The  skull  on  the 
table  in  the  corner,  seemed  suddenly  endowed 
with  life,  and  to  peer  forth  from  its  hollow 
eyes  with  strange  fire. 

All  this  appeared  to  the  deluded  eyes  of  the 
robber,  whose  thoughts  were  of  a  character 
doubtless  to  startle  even  himself.  Perhaps  in 
all  that  man's  fearful  life  of  crime,  he  had 
never  yet  committed  a  murder  in  cold  blood  ; 
he  had  never  crept  upon  a  man  in  the  dark, 
nor  struck  him  the  fatal  blow  while  sleeping ; 
but  when  he  had  shed  blood,  it  was  when  his 
own  was  heated,  when  the  clashing  of  swords 
was  ringing  in  his  ears,  and  his  own  life  was 
likely  at  any  moment  to  pay  the  same  forfeit 
as  that  of  his  opponent.  When  he  had  dealt 
the  death  blow,  it  had  been  in  open  battle,  or 
perhaps  at  times  in  self-defence,  but  he  had 
never  yet  been  an  assassin. 

It  was  evident  now  to  his  mind  that  so  long 
as  Hardhead  lived,  his  own  life  was  not  worth 
a  straw.  He  was  liable  at  any  moment  to  be 
seized  by  the  police,  and  being  denounced  by 
him,  to  be  condemned  and  executed.  How 
then  could  he  permit  him  to  live  longer  ?  It 
was  very  evident  that  the  man  heeded  not  the 
mutual  oath  they  had  taken.  If  he  disre 
garded  it  when  in  the  state  he  was  in  to-night, 
so  he  might  do  at  another  time,  or  he  might 
be  in  that  condition  in  some  place  where  it 
would  be  equally  fatal  to  the  pretended  for 
tune-teller  for  him  to  speak  out.  Realizing 
these  things,  the  robber  said  to  himself  that  it 
was  not  safe  to  have  Hardhead  go  from  that 
room  alive. 

If  he  killed  him,  how  could  he  dispose  of 
the  body  ?  Thinking  over  this  matter,  he 
walked  before  the  door  of  Hardhead's  chamber 
many  times  Was  there  no  way  to  do  this  so 
as  to  leave  no  trace  of  the  murder  behind,  to 
betray  that  he  had  died  by  violence?  He 
thought  of  poi?on«,  but  all  that  he  knew  of, 


THE  MISTAKE   OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


247 


might  be  detected  by  dissection  of  the  body 
after  death.  They  would  not  do.  Taking  a 
candle  he  looked  among  the  rubbish  and 
shelves  of  a  closet  of  the  room,  where  he 
sometimes  prepared  some  chemical  agents  to 
produce  certain  effects  before  the  eyes,  or  with 
which  to  assail  the  senses  of  those  who  came 
consult  him  as  the  fortune-teller. 

Stumbling  against  a  small  furnace  in  which 
he  was  accustomed  to  build  the  fire  for  the 
chemical  purposes  referred  to,  an  idea  seemed 
to  strike  him  at  once,  which  he  prepared  to 
put  in  execution. 

Filling  the  little  furnace  with  charcoal,  he 
placed  a  few  bits  of  folded  paper  and  combus 
tible  matter  underneath,  and  took  it  to  Hard 
head's  door.  All  was  still ;  he  opened  it  and 
went  in.  It  was  a  smajl  room,  with  indiffer 
ent  accommodations,  but  very  snug ;  not  a 
breath  of  air  could  get  in,  save  from  a  small 
window,  which  was  now  tightly  closed  and 
fastened.  The  robber  placed  the  furnace  near 
the  head  of  the  bed  where  Hardhead  lay  in 
his  drunken  slumber,  and  lighting  the  paper 
beneath  it,  he  paused  long  enough  to  see  it 
fairly  ignited,  then  withdrew  from  the  room, 
taking  the  key  with  him  and  locking  the  door 
on  the  outside ! 

The  robber  then  retired  to  his  own  sleeping 


apartment,  which  led  from  the  same  room 
nearly  opposite  to  Hardhead's  door.  He  did 
not  undress  himself,  but  pouring  out  a  glass 
of  spirit,  tossed  it  off  clear  without  water,  and 
throwing  himself  upon  the  outside  of  a  dirty- 
looking  bed,  fell  into  an  uneasy  sleep.  Twice 
he  started  to  his  feet  and  looked  about  him,  as 
though  he  dreamed  that  he  was  attacked  by 
some  one.  The  second  time  that  he  awoke 
thus,  he  walked  over  and  listened  at  Hard 
head's  room.  It  was  already  broad  daylight, 
but  how  still  it  was  in  there !  Not  even  the 
breathing  could  be  heard  now.  The  robber 
almost  shuddered  as  he  went  back  to  his  bed 
to  strive  and  obtain  a  few  moments  more  of 
troubled  sleep. 

At  last  he  rose,  and  making  a  hasty  toilet, 
quietly  put  the  key  into  the  door  of  Hardhead's 
room,  and  after  listening  long  and  anxiously, 
turned  the  lock  and  opened  it.  At  first  he 
staggered  back  with  the  gust  of  noxious  gas 
that  fumed  into  his  lungs  and  nostrils,  but 
with  great  presence  of  mind,  he  pressed  in 
and  threw  open  the  window,  soon  clearing  the 
room  of  the  fatal  vapor  of  the  charcoal.  On 
the  bed  lay  Hardhead,  just  as  he  had  lain 
himself  down  on  retiring.  Not  a  limb  was 
discomposed,  not  a  feature  changed,  but  the 
breath  was  gone  ! 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 


THE   ARREST. 

All  is  not  lost — the  unconquerable  will 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield. 


MILTON. 


THE  robber  took  immediate  steps  to  have 
Hardhead's  body  conveyed  away  from  his 
premises,  and  in  order  to  do  this  without  hav 
ing  suspicion  attach  itself  to  him  as  to  the 
matter  of  his  death,  he  applied  at  once  to  the 
nearest  police  station  for  a  permit  and  assist 
ance  to  have  the  corpse  taken  to  the  dead 
house.  He  signed  the  usual  certificates,  and 
swore  to  the  statement  that  the  deceased  was 
a  servant  much  given  to  intemperance,  and 
that  he  had  retired  on  the  previous  night  in  a 
state  of  intoxication — and  on  calling  him,  and 
finding  that  he  did  not  answer,  as  usual,  he 
had  entered  his  room  and  found  him  insensi 
ble,  and  that  he  had  apparently  died  in  a  fit. 

He  paid  the  necessary  fee  established  for 
such  purposes,  and  persons  were  at  once  sent 
to  remove  Hardhead's  body,  the  robber's 
mind  being  thus  greatly  relieved  from  the  per 
plexity  that  the  business  had  cost  him. 

The  reader,  who  now  knows  in  the  fortune 
teller,  not  only  the  person  of  the  Robber  of 
the  Rhine  Valley,  but  also  the  various  char 
acters  which  he  has  personated  in  our  story, 
will  realize  some  points  with  a  little  prompt 
ing,  that  may  heretofore  have  looked  perhaps 
singular.  We  have  labored  to  show  how 
strangely  Karl  Blasius  was  affected  by  the 
love  that  possessed  him  for  the  Lady  Gustine. 
It  had  rendered  him  almost  insane,  and  the 
resemblance  of  Clara  to  her  he  had  thus 
loved,  had  led  him  to  keep  her  as  a  prisoner 


near  him,  and  it  was  the  singular  resemblance 
also  of  Edith  to  the  Lady  Gustine  that  had 
so  infatuated  him  in  relation  to  her.  It  was 
this  that  first  attracted  him  towards  her  in 
Mother  Giles's  tap-room,  and  that  afterwards 
led  him  to  steal  her  away  from  Sir  Robert, 
though  revenge  had  also  somewhat  to  do  with 
that  matter  after  the  robber  found  whose  house 
he  was  in,  for  he  remembered  the  discomfiture 
he  had  received  at  Sir  Robert's  hands  in  the 
matter  when  he  rescued  Edith  from  the  tap 
room. 

The  same  feelings  that  had  drawn  him 
towards  Edith  and  Clara  heretofore,  seemed 
still  to  move  him,  and  to  one  who  could  ana 
lyze  his  mind,  it  was  very  evident  that  he  was 
crazy  upon  this  one  point,  that  a  monomania 
had  taken  complete  hold  upon  his  mind  touch 
ing  the  memory  of  her  face.  There  is  a  pe 
culiar  eye  that  is  not  often  seen,  but  when 
met  with,  is  most  frequently  blue,  large  in  de 
velopment,  and  with  a  plaintive,  witching 
power,  that  seems  almost  involuntary,  but  at 
the  same  time  is  most  potent.  One  may  not 
meet  such  eyes  but  once  in  a  life.  Of  this 
class  and  peculiarity  were  the  eyes  of  the 
Lady  Gustine.  Edith  and  Clara's  were  the 
same,  and  it  was  thus  that  the  robber  still  felt 
a  longing  desire  to  gaze  upon  them,  and  even 
now  planned  how  he  might  see  them  once 
more.  The  passion,  as  we  have  said,  amount 
ed  with  him  to  a  delirium. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


249 


As  the  fortune-teller,  neither  Sir  Kobert  nor 
any  of  the  family  had  yet  recognized  the  true 
character  of  him  who  had  seemed  to  know  so 
much  of  their  private  affairs.  Indeed  Sir 
Robert  had  more  than  once  resolved,  since  he 
had  openly  explained  the  matter  to  Lord  Ami 
down,  to  again  visit  the  fortune-teller,  and  saf 
isfy  himself  how  it  was  possible  for  this  indi 
vidual  to  possess  a  knowledge  of  his  early 
affairs  relative  to  his  child,  for  it  was  a  broad 
hint  relating  to  those  matters  that  had  so  con 
founded  and  disturbed  him  on  his  first  visit  to 
her  rooms. 

Sir  Robert  was  so  thoroughly  convinced 
that  the  fortune-teller  knew  nothing  through 
any  superhuman  means,  that  he  felt  satisfied 
of  his  having  individual  information  from 
some  source  that  it  was  for  his  interest  to 
fathom  and  control.  He  would  not  for  half 
his  fortune  be  exposed  in  the  delicate  matter 
relative  to  his  child's  loss  among  the  very 
lowest  class  of  the  community,  and  he  knew, 
too,  that  he  had  but  indifferently  possessed 
himself  pf  all  the  particulars  of  her  childhood 
while  lost  to  him,  and  if  this  person  could  in 
form  him  of  even  these  events  alone,  it  was  of 
sufficient  interest  for  him  again  to  consult 
her.  As  the  denouement  touching  her  right 
by  birth  had  transpired,  Sir  Robert  no  longer 
felt  the  delicacy  touching  the  matter  that  he 
had  done  before,  though  he  earnestly  desired 
still  to  keep  all  knowledge  of  the  matter  con 
fined  to  his  own  family  circle. 

It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  which 
opens  this  chapter,  that  Sir  Robert,  actuated 
by  these  feelings,  sought  the  house  of  the 
fortune-teller,  when,  having  sent  up  his  card, 
he  was  admitted  in  due  form,  but  not  this 
time  by  the  Nubian.  Hardhead,  who  had 
personated  this  character  heretofore,  was  gone 
now,  where,  the  robber  could  best  say,  but  a 
plain  white  servant  ushered  Sir  Robert  into 
the  mystic  room.  Everything  was  as  he  had 
seen  it  there  before — the  wax  lights  burned 
dimly,  and  the  incense  rose  gracefully  from 
the  table  where  it  was  placed,  while  the  light 
of  day  but  dimly  penetrated  the  heavy  hang 
ing  curtains  of  the  windows. 

"What brings  Sir  Robert  Brompton  again 
to  seek  audience  in  this  place  ?"  asked  the  dis 
guised  robber. 

"When  I  was  last  here,"  said  Sir  Robert, 
"  you  referred  to  a  matter  that  convinced  me, 


not  of  your  power  as  to  magic  or  superhuman 
knowledge,  but  that  by  some  strange  fortune 
you  had  become  possessed  of  information 
nearly  concerning  me.  The  object  of  this 
visit  is  to  come  to  a  perfect  understanding 
with  you  upon  this  subject." 

"  You  seem  less  sensitive  than  you  were 
when  last  here ;  how  have  matters  changed 
to  affect  you  thus  ?" 

"  You  know  so  much  of  my  affairs  already 
by  some  strange  means,  that  I  may  tell  you  in 
this  connection  that  the  secret  of  Edith's  re 
lationship  has  necessarily  been  divulged." 

"  To  Lord  Amidown  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  anticipated  this,  and  told  him  in  this 
room  that  pride  would  snap  the  silken  tie  that 
bound  him  there,  but  that  it  would  be  joined 
again ;  for  I  knew  that  when  you  saw  so  much 
at  stake,  you  would  risk  all  else  to  make  her 
you  loved  so  well,  happy.  Did  I  not  judge 
rightly  ?" 

"You  did  indeed,  and  must  have  known 
my  family  affairs  well  to  have  reasoned  thus," 
replied  Sir  Robert. 

"  I  have  known  them  intimately,  Sir  Robert, 
ever  since  Edith's  return  to  your  house  after 
a  year's  absence  !" 

"  Indeed,"  said  Sir  Robert,  in  surprise,  "  this 
is  very  strange — what  motive  could  possibly 
have  led  you  to  keep  such  a  constant  watch 
upon  my  domestic  affairs  ?  What  interest 
have  you  in  them  ?" 

"  It  is  a  long  story,  Sir  Robert,  and  one 
which  I  am  not  inclined  to  divulge  at  present; 
but  at  some  other  time,  perhaps,  a  full  under 
standing  will  be  well  on  the  part  of  both  of 
us." 

"  But  I  have  come  expressly  for  the  purpose 
at  this  time,  and  will  remunerate  you  well  for 
your  trouble." 

"  Money  is  of  little  object  to  me,  at  present," 
said  the  pretended  fortune-teller ;  "  I  am  not 
prepared  to  accede  to  your  wishes  now.  At 
another  time  I  may  seek  an  interview  myself 
for  the  purpose." 

Sir  Robert  mused  to  himself  for  some 
minutes,  evidently  disappointed  at  the  turn 
the  interview  had  taken,  when  suddenly  a 
loud  knocking  was  heard  at  the  door  below, 
and  soon  after  the  heavy  tread  of  several 
persons  upon  the  stairs  announced  that  a  par 
ty  was  approaching  the  room  for  some  purpose. 


250 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


At  first,  the  pretended  fortune-teller  seemed 
to  be  evidently  disconcerted,  but  long  practice 
had  rendered  the  robber  very  perfect  at  dis 
simulation,  and  he  appeared  once  more  to  be 
quite  at  home,  and  unconcerned,  though  those 
who  approached  so  unceremoniously  were  alrea 
dy  at  the  door  of  the  room  where  Sir  Robert  and 
the  ex-robber  were  together.  All  doubt  as  to 
the  character  of  the  new  comers  was  at  once 
put  to  rest  by  some  four  or  five  men  wearing 
the  police  uniform  filing  into  the  room,  and 
stationing  themselves  before  the  door,  while 
he  who  seemed  to  be  the  leader  of  the  party, 
advanced  and  addressed  the  robber : 

"  You  are  known  by  the  name  of  Madame 
Duval,  are  you  not  ?" 

"  I  am." 

"  Then  you  will  throw  off  that  toggery, 
and  come  along  with  me." 

"  What!1' 

"  Lay  by  your  disguise,  and  come  with  us 
at  once,"  replied  the  officer. 

"  There  is  some  mistake  here." 

"  None  at  all." 

"  You  come  to  arrest  me  ?" 

"  We  do." 

"  On  whose  complaint?'' 

"  That  I  know  not." 

"  With  what  am  I  charged  ?" 

"  Nor  that  either  do  I  know.  We  obey 
orders,  and  ask  no  questions." 

"  WJ11  you  not  retire,  and  give  me  a  few 
moments  to  prepare  myself?" 

"  Not  a  step  do  we  go  until  you  go  with  us. 
We  don't  lose  sight  of  you,  0  no !" 

The  robber  saw  that  he  was  caught,  but  he 
could  not  fathom  the  business — nor  could  he 
tell  upon  what  charge  he  was  arrested.  He 
demanded  to  see  the  warrant ;  the  officer  show 
ed  it,  and  then  he  could  only  read  his  assum 
ed  name — but  there  was  no  cause  specified  ; 
it  was  all  a  mystery  to  him. 

"  Come,"  s.aid  the  officer,  "  if  you  don't  take 
those  clothes  off,  I  shall  help  you ;"  and  as  he 
spoke  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  person  of  the 
ex-robber,  as  though  to  remove  the  flowing 
gown  in  which  he  was  dressed. 

"Fool,"  answered  the  pretended  fortune 
teller,  dashing  the  officer  to  the  ground  with 
one  stroke  of  his  arm. 

This  was  the  signal  for  a  general  melee, 
during  which  the  fortune-teller  was  not  only 
secured',  but  had  the  clothes  completely  torn 


from  his  back,  leaving  him  in  the  dress  he  had 
worn  in  the  gaming  room. 

"Karl  Blasius!"  exclaimed  Sir  Robert 
Brompton,  in  utter  amazement  at  the  sight  he 
beheld. 

"  A  word  with  you,  Sir  Robert." 

After  a  moment's  pause,  Sir  Robert  ap 
proached,  when  the  robber  whispered  in  his 
ear: 

"  I  have  a  secret  that  nearly  concerns  you ; 
remember  that ;  betray  not  your  knowledge  of 
who  or  what  I  am,  or  the  secret  shall  die  with 
me.  There  is  no  possible  way  for  those  peo 
ple  to  detain  me  long — they  can  produce  no 
evidence  against  me,  and  without  that,  I  am 
easily  freed  again." 

As  he  whispered  thus  hurriedly,  and  stood 
there  with  dishevelled  hair,  and  in  an  attitude 
of  defence,  a  strange  thought  passed  over  Sir 
Robert's  brain :  I  have  seen  that  man  in  pre 
cisely  the  same  situation  before,  or  nearly  so. 
He  closed  his  eyes,  and  seemed  for  a  moment 
lost  in  thought,  then  starting,  as  a  picture 
seemed  to  present  itself,  he  asked  in  a  whisper, 
as  the  robber  now  stood  alone,  his  hands  tied 
behind  him,  while  the  police  took  notes  of  the 
room,  and  examined  the  appearance  of  things 
closely,  as  if  to  make  a  report  of  them  : 

"  A  strange  suspicion  has  come  over  me 
that  I  have  known  you  in  another  character 
besides  that  of  robber,  fortune-teller,  and 
gamester — is  it  not  not  so  ?" 

"Where?" 

"  In  the  tap-room  of  Mother  Giles !" 

"  We  have  met  there." 

"  And  you  are  Bill  the  Bold  ?" 

"  Hush !  To  you,  yes.  But  speak  not  so 
loud  before  these  witnesses." 

Sir  Robert  mused  for  a  moment  longer,  and 
then  asked : 

"  Then  it  was  you  who  stole  away  Edith 
from  my  house  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  were  in  the  melee  of  that  night 
when  I  took  her  from  the  tap-room?" 

"I  was." 

"  Strange  that  we  did  not  know  each  other." 

"  You  were  thoroughly  disguised." 

"  That  is  true." 

"  And  little  thought  to  find  Karl  Blasius, 
who  was  reported  dead,  in  the  tap-room  of  St. 
Giles." 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


251 


"  That  is  all  very  correct — no  wonder  I  did 
not  know  you." 

"  Come  to  me  when  I  am  confined.  Be 
friend  me,  Sir  Robert,  not  in  money  mattersi 
I  have  enough  of  the  stuff,  but  help  me  as  no 
one  else  can  do,  and  I  will  be  of  great  service 
to  you.  I  will  unravel  a  mystery  to  you  that 
else  must  remain  hidden  forever.  Will  you 
remember  ?" 

"  I  will,"  replied  Sir  Robert,  thoughtfully, 
as  the  police  hurried  the  prisoner  away. 

"  Stay,"  he  said,  to  those  who  led  him.  "  I 
wish  to  speak  one  word  to  my  friend." 

"  Be  brief,  then — we  can't  wait  long,"  said 
the  surly  official. 

"Si/Robert?" 

"Well." 

"Closer;  I  wish  to  whisper  to  you,"  he 
said,  waiting  for  him  to  draw  nearer. 

"  What  do  you  wish  to  say  ?" 

"  I  have  no  one  else  to  call  upon  now  ;  will 
you  not  lock  that  door,  and  take  charge  of  the 
key  for  me  ?" 

"  Why  not  give  it  to  these  people  ?" 

"  There  is  much  there  that  I  would  not 
have  seen  or  overhauled." 

"  But  I  hardly  think  it  will  be  permitted  for 
me  to  do  so." 

"Certainly — they  have  a  warrant  for  my 
arrest,  but  not  for  the  seizing  of  my  property. 
I  assure  you  that  it  is  for  your  interest  to  take 
charge  of  the  key." 


"  Until  I  can  communicate  with  you,  I  will 
take  the  key,  then,"  said  Sir  Robert,  locking 
the  door,  and  putting  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  robber;  "and  now 
until  we  meet  again,  farewell." 

"  I  am  ready  now,"  said  the  prisoner,  to 
those  about  him,  who,  though  they  kept  a 
sharp  look-out  upon  him,  had  permitted  this 
moment  of  respite,  or  release,  which  enabled 
him  to  make  the  arrangement  with  Sir  Robert 
concerning  the  key. 

The  robber  went  peaceably  with  the  men' — 
there  was  no  use  in  resistance — but  he  sighed 
heavily. 

Sir  Robert  turned  away  towards  his  home 
in  a  thoughtful  mood,  The  mystery  of  many 
events  in  his  past  experience  was  unravelling 
itself;  he  was  so  wrapped  up  in  these  thoughts 
that  he  reached  his  own  door  before  he  was 
aware  of  it.  Summoning  Walter  to  his  stu 
dy,  he  related  to  him  the  events  that  had  just 
transpired,  of  course,  under  the  promise  of 
secrecy.  He  would  not  have  done  so  to  any 
one  else,  but  Walter  himself  was  so  intimate 
ly  interwoven  with  these  very  affairs,  that  it 
was  a  duty  he  owed  to  him.  As  it  regarded 
the  robber's  fate,  it  seemed  now  to  be  drawing 
fast  towards  a  close,  and  confident  as  he  was, 
still  when  he  entered  the  walls  of  Newgate, 
a  chill  ran  through  his  frame,  and  a  presenti 
ment  possessed  his  heart  that  he  would  never 
pass  them  again  his  own  master. 


CHAPTER    XL  V. 


CUPID'S    DOINGS. 


The  strife 

Of  love,  faith,  fear,  and  that  vain  dream  of  life, 
Within  her  woman  breast ! 


HEMANS. 


IN  the  meantime  the  developments  in  re 
lation  to  Lord  Amidown,  which  Walter  had 
been  called  upon  to  make  to  his  sister  the 
Lady  Josephine,  had  worked  quite  a  change 
in  the  affairs  at  Sir  Robert's  house.  An  inti 
macy  at  once  sprang  up  between  her  and 
Edith  and  Clara ;  Lady  Josephine  now  be 
came  a  frequent  visiter  at  Sir  Robert's.  The 
delight  experienced  by  Edith  in  the  society  of 
one  so  nearly  allied  to  him  she  loved,  need 
hardly  be  referred  to,  but  it  was  the  source 
of  the  greatest  pleasure  to  her.  Clara  too  en 
joyed  her  new  friend,  and  truth  to  say,  Sir 
Robert  thought  that  Lady  Josephine  paid 
much  more  earnest  regard  to  her  than  she  did 
to  Edith ;  perhaps  her  taste  and  temperament 
were  more  to  her  liking. 

All  this  was  just  as  Walter  could  have  de 
sired.  It  brought  him  in  frequent  contact 
with  Lady  Josephine,  and  enabled  him  to 
drink  in  the  sweets  of  her  fascinating  society. 
Edith  and  Clara,  of  course,  could  not  help 
smiling  within  themselves,  or  at  least  this  was 
the  case  with  Edith,  as  she  observed  how  de 
voted  Walter  had  become  to  his  third  choice. 
We  do  wrong  perhaps  to  say  that  Clara  laugh 
ed  at  Walter ;  this  was  not  the  case.  Secret 
ly  she  sighed  within  her  heart,  though  no 
mortal  could  detect  any  such  sentiment,  as 
evinced  in  her  outward  appearance  and  bear 


ing.  She  was  never  happier  than  when 
praising  Walter  to  Josephine,  and  the  latter 
was  never  better  pleased  than  when  listening 
to  her. 

But  though  Clara  delighted  to  praise  Wal 
ter  for  his  good  qualities  before  Josephine 
Amidown,  yet  when  alone  in  her  own  room, 
her  heart  beat  sadly  as  she  realized  that  he 
could  never  be  her  husband ;  and  in  the 
true  generosity  of  her  heart,  she  would  hope 
that  he  might  be  as  dearly  loved  by  her  who 
should  in  the  end  be  his  life's  companion. — 
How  unselfish  was  the  fair  girl's  heart,  devot 
ed  as  it  was  to  its  love  for  Walter. 

Clara  did  not  exactly  envy  Edith  the  posi 
tion  that  she  now  held,  but  yet  she  sometimes 
said  to  herself,  when  alone  and  thoughtful  she 
sat  musing  in  the  solitude  of  her  chamber  : 

"Ah,  Edith,  Edith,  what  reason  is  there 
that  you  should  not  be  perfectly  at  peace,  with 
everything  that  should  make  you  happy,  and 
above  all  possessing  that  jewel — 0,  my  God  ! 
too  bright  for  me  to  contemplate — innocence  !" 

Poor  Clara,  how  sad,  how  dreary  was  every 
thing  to  thee,  even  though  thy  face  was  so 
often  wreathed  in  smiles,  while  Edith  and 
Josephine  retired  to  their  pillows  to  sleep  and 
dream  of  soft  scenes  of  love  and  tender  endear 
ments,  thy  wakeful  eyes  knew  no  rest,  thy 
throbbing  breast  kept  pace  with  the  steady 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


253 


march  of  time,  that  never  sleepeth.  Since 
Edith  had  become  comparatively  settled  in 
purpose,  and  her  union  with  Lord  Amidovvn 
was  considered  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
since  Walter  had  seemed  to  have  become  the 
accepted  lover  of  Lady  Josephine,  Clara  had 
grown  a  shade  more  sober  and  thoughtful; 
her  merriment  was  more  subdued,  and  the 
merry  peals  of  laughter  wont  to  rise  from  her 
fair  lips,  were  less  frequent.  This  matter 
neither  Edith  nor  Walter  noticed  ;  they  were 
now  too  full  of  other  thoughts  to  observe  any 
slight  variation  in  appearance  that  Clara  might 
evince,  but  Mrs.  Marlow  noted  it  well,  and 
strove  by  her  tender  solicitude  to  make  her  as 
happy  as  possible.  But  yet  the  housekeeper 
realized  that  there  was  a  worm  gnawing  at 
her  heart,  a  secret  that  doubtless  might  not  be 
unveiled. 

"  Dear  Miss  Clara,"  said  the  housekeeper, 
"  you  do  not  seem  well  to-day ;  can't  I  do 
something  for  you  ?" 

"  O,  no,  good  Mrs.  Marlow ;  you  are  too 
thoughtful  and  kind  to  me.  I  am  not  ill,  I  as 
sure  you." 

"Not  ill?" 

«  No." 

"  O,  then  you  must  have  something  upon 
your  mind  I  fear,  that  troubles  you,  for  you 
look  very  sad  at  times." 

"  Do  I  ?"  asked  Clara,  thoughtfully. 

"  Yes,  indeed  you  do,  Miss  Clara." 

"  Well,  we  can't  be  happy  always,  Mrs. 
Marlow ;  one  can't  smile  all  the  time ;  even 
the  blue  sky,  that  is  so  bright  in  the  sunlight, 
and  so  sparkling  in  the  clear  moonlight,  is 
sometimes  covered  with  clouds." 

"True,  Miss  Clara;. but  then  it  is  only 
when  a  damp  mist  comes  on,  or  heavy  clouds 
of  rain  overspread  it.  Now  just  like  the  blue 
sky,  is  your  soul.  What  cloud  overspreads 
it ;  wont  you  tell  me.  that  I  may  try  to  brush 
it  away  ?" 

Clara  started  at  the  apt  argument  of  Mrs. 
Marlow,  and  walking  to  a  window,  looked  out 
for  some  minutes  without  saying  aught  in 
reply  to  the  query  that  had  been  put  to  her. — 
Her  mind  was  very  busy  the  while,  and  she 
heeded  not  the  scene  passing  without,  upon 
which  her  eyes  seemed  to  rest,  though  their 
pupils  gave  back  no  reflection  ;  there  was  too 
much  activity  within.  "  Am  I  so  changed," 
she  thought,  "  that  every  one  notices  me  of 


late  ?    I  must  look  to  this ;  they  shall  find  me 
henceforth  as  merry  as  ever  before  !" 

The  soft  complexion  which  formed  one  of 
Clara's  principal  attractions  in  the  matter  of 
personal  beauty,  had  of  late  assumed  a  more 
delicate  and  transparent  hue.  She  had  not 
absolutely  grown  pale,  but  the  fair  color  of  her 
cheek  was  more  delicate,  and  it  was  more  dif 
ficult  to  discover  where  it  commenced  and 
where  left  off,  than  it  had  been  heretofore. — 
A  tender  pensiveness  crept  over  the  expres 
sion  of  her  features,  and  as  far  as  personal 
beauty  was  concerned,  she  was  much  hand 
somer  than  when  she  first  entered  Sir  Robert 
Brompton's  house  as  the  companion  of  Edith. 
The  ruby  of  her  sweetly  formed  lips  was  less 
deep,  but  seemingly  more  pure,  and  her  plea 
surable  expression  was  less  decided  and  ear 
nest  in  parting  those  lips,  but  a  gentle  an 
swering  token  of  expression  of  the  eyes  when 
she  was  slightly  moved,  had  formed  an  added 
grace  to  her  smile  that  was  doubly  attractive. 
Indeed,  so  pure  a  style  of  beauty  did  Clara 
present,  that  she  had  become  the  paragon  of 
loveliness  with  all  who  saw  her,  and  only  suf 
fered  by  comparison  with  Edith,  whose  graces 
and  loveliness  of  person,  though  of  a  some 
what  different  character,  yet  grew  thrivingly 
as  she  approached  still  nearer  the  maturity  of 
womanhood.  Perhaps  a  majority  would  have 
pronounced  Edith  at  the  present  time  to  be 
much  the  handsomer  of  the  two,  but  an  artist 
would  have  pointed  out  with  peculiar  satisfac 
tion  the  extraordinary  purity  of  Clara's  expres 
sion,  and  the  magic  blending  of  the  rose  and 
lily  upon  her  cheek.  They  would  have  told 
you  that  Edith  was  beautiful,  but  that  Clara 
was  more  artistically  lovely.  Even  Walter, 
who  had  known  her  so  long  and  well,  and 
whose  heart  was  so  thoroughly  engaged  now 
in  another  quarter,  often  paused  to  gaze  in 
admiration  upon  Clara. 

Lady  Josephine  Amidown,  as  compared  with 
either  of  them,  was  not  handsome,  but  she 
possessed  a  high-bred,  easy,  attractive  and  vi 
vacious  manner,  that  is  so  winning  in  the 
gentler  sex.  An  art,  or  a  gift,  which  ever  it 
may  be,  that  makes  even  an  ordinary  face 
look  pretty,  and  which  carries  all  before  it. — 
You  have  met  with  this  species  of  attraction, 
gentle  reader,  a  hundred  times,  and  such  was 
Lady  Josephine's  secret  of  power. 

At  a  card  party  at  Sir  Robert's,  about  the 


254 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


period  we  refer  to,  Colonel  Freeman  and  Cap 
tain  Sidney  had  again  met.  Both  were  as 
devoted  followers  of  Clara  as  ever,  and  both 
were  quite  as  hopeless  in  their  suit. 

"  There,  captain,  did  you  ever  see  such  rare 
beauty  as  that  ?"  said  the  colonel,  referring  to 
Clara,  as  she  sat  turning  over  some  rich  en 
gravings  upon  the  centre  talle,  and  in  a  posi 
tion  where  the  light  displayed  her  features  to 
the  best  advantage. 

The  sailor  heeded  not  the  remark,  and  the 
colonel  turned  to  see  that  he  was  also  regard- 
in<y  her  at  that  moment  with  marked  admira- 

D 

tion,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  arm  that  he  succeeded  in  attracting 
his  attention.  When  he  did  so,  Captain  Sid 
ney  heaved  a  sigh,  that  showed  how  much  in 
terested  he  was. 

"  I  was  speaking  of  Miss  Clara,  Sidney  ;  is 
she  not  looking  superbly  to-night?" 

"  Superbly,  colonel  ?  She's  a  divinity," 
said  the  captain,  earnestly,  still  regarding  her 
as  he  spoke. 

That  very  night,  Captain  Sidney,  seeking 
a  favorable  opportunity,  offered  his  heart  and 
hand  to  Clara,  but  was  so  gently,  so  pleasant 
ly,  and  yet  so  decidedly  refused,  that  he  swore 
to  a  friend  the  next  day  in  confidence,  he  had 
rather  have  her  refuse  him,  than  to  have  many 
a  more  noted  belle  accept  him,  she  did  it  so 
sweetly. 

But  it  was  no  extraordinary  thing  for  Clara 
to  receive  such  proposals ;  indeed  she  might 
more  than  once  have  married  far  above  Sir 
Robert  Brompton's  rank  in  society,  had  she 
felt  disposed.  There  was  only  one  person 
who  could  appreciate  the  delicacy  of  soul  that 
thus  kept  Clara  free,  and  that  was  Edith. — 
She  alone  knew  the  secrets  of  her  early  life, 
and  though  she  was  now  so  much  occupied 
and  engaged  by  her  own  associations,  that 
she  perhaps  gave  Clara's  position  less  thought 
than  she  would  else  have  done  ;  yet  she  had 
often  fully  realized  these  things,  knowing  at 
the  same  time  that  it  was  a  wound  that  even 
her  friendly  hand  must  not  probe. 

Sir  Robert  Brompton  looked  on  with  warm 
gratification  to  see  the  consummation  of 
Edith's  happiness.  And  it  had  appeared  that 
the  union  of  Walter  and  Josephine  was  a  mat 
ter  already  agreed  upon,  though  it  was  not  so 
announced  as  yet.  The  two  assimilated  most 
happily  together,  and  the  sister  of  Lord  Ami- 


down  was  in  love  with  Walter  beyond  a  doubt 

while  he  was  all  devotion  and  tenderness. 

And  in  this  condition,  Sir  Robert's  house  pre 
sented  quite  a  temple  of  Hymen,  or  at  least  a 
rendezvous  for  Cupid.  But  though  Sir  Robert 
was  thus  happy  about  his  domestic  affairs,  he 
now  and  then  felt  a  strange  interest  in  the 
robber,  who  now  lay  in  the  dungeons  of  New 
gate.  He  felt  that  the  man  possessed  secrets 
concerning  himself  that  were  of  vital  impor 
tance  to  his  own  peace  of  mind  to  keep  unre- 
vealed,  and  that  he  also  knew  of  matters  con 
cerning  Edith  that  he  himself  would  gladly 
be  master  of.  These  thoughts  often  caused  him 
to  revert  to  that  strange  dark  man,  who  had 
by  singular  fortune  been  so  intimately  con 
nected  with  his  interests. 

Sir  Robert  had  latterly  leaned  more  upon 
Walter  for  advice  than  he  had  previously 
done.  His  protege  now  knew  the  whole  of 
his  past  history,  and  therefore  he  felt  less  re 
straint  with  him  than  he  had  done  when  he 
was  obliged  at  all  times  to  guard  the  one  se 
cret  of  his  life  from  struggling  forth  to  the 
light.  He  had  told  Walter  of  his  last  visit  to 
the  fortune-teller,  and  of  the  singular  result  of 
their  last  meeting,  and  asked  him  what  he 
thought  it  was  best  to  do, 

"  Let  him  receive  his  deserts,  Sir  Robert ; 
the  world  will  then  be  rid  of  one  black-hearted 
villain  at  least." 

"  But,  Walter,  he  possesses  my  secret — the 
tangled  thread  of  my  child's  history  is  all  in 
his  knowledge." 

"  That  is  true." 

"  Besides  which,  he  bade  me  see  him  in 
prison  with  such  a  voice  and  manner,  that  I 
knew  he  had  much  else  to  reveal  that  con 
cerned  me  nearly.  In  short,  a  strange  fancy 
seems  to  draw  me  towards  him  " 

"  Why,  if  you  desire  it  so  much,  you  might 
see  him  in  person." 

"  Ah  !  but  that  will  involve  me,  I  know,  in 
other  matters.  He  is  friendless  and  must 
need  counsel  and  aid,  not  pecuniary ;  I  know 
he  has  money  enough,  but  that  wont  always 
buy  friends." 

"  It  would  be  rather  bad  taste  to  be  counted 
among  the  friends  of  such  a  man." 

"  Nevertheless,  Walter,  feeling  impressed 
as  I  do,  I  must  visit  him." 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  Sir 
Robert  held  this  conversation  with  Walter,  he 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


255 


received  from  an  unknown  hand  a  note,  open 
ing  which,  he  read  as  follows  : 

"  SIR  ROBERT  BROMPTON  : 

"  A  week  has  passed  since  I  last  saw 
you  at  my  house,  at  which  time  I  was  seized 
and  carried  to  prison  by  the  police.  You  will 
remember  my  earnestly  expressed  hope  at  that 
time,  that  you  would  come  to  me  in  Newgate. 
I  have  daily  looked  for  you,  more  earnestly, 
perhaps,  because  I  have  no  visiters  at  all,  and 
see  only  my  jailer.  I  should  not  urge  upon 
you  to  visit  me,  if  my  desire  were  a  selfish 
one  only.  I  feel  that  I  possess  knowledge  that 
to  you  is  most  invaluable.  This  I  will  only 
part  with  in  consideration  that  you  offer  me 
such  reasonable  aid  as  you  can  do  in  getting 
me  legal  counsel  and  taking  other  steps  to  have 
me  cleared  from  this  vile  duress.  It  will 
not  be  necessary  for  you  to  appear  in  the  mat 
ter  at  all,  so  that  you  will  compromise  nothing 
by  this  kindness  to  me. 

"  As  another  inducement  to  bring  you  here, 
there  is  an  act  of  justice  that  I  desire  to  do 
for  Lord  Amidown,  which  I  will  entrust  to 
your  hands — something  very  important  to  him 
in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view.  This  induce 
ment  alone,  I  should  think,  must  be  sufficient 
to  bring  you  to  my  cell.  I  shall  look  for  you 
with  impatience.  K.  B." 

This  note  aroused  all  Sir  Robert's  curiosity 
afresh.  There  was  evidently  some  matter  of 
eminent  importance  to  him  that  the  robber 
was  willing  to  impart,  provided  he  was  once 
assured  of  his  assistance  in  his  present  dilem 


ma,  and  though  Sir  Robert  actually  felt  con 
scientious  scruples  as  to  aiding  such  a  scourge 
to  society  in  any  way,  still  he  was  irresistibly 
drawn  forward  to  meet  with  him,  if  not  to 
serve  him,  as  he  desired  he  should  do.  The 
clause  relating  to  Lord  Amidown,  too,  was  of 
importance.  Sir  Robert  was  some  time  since 
convinced  that  Karl  Blasius  was  the  person 
who  had  won  so  largely  from  his  intended 
son-in-law,  and  he  thought  that  no  doubt  he 
proposed  to  refund  at  least  a  part  of  the 
money.  A  matter  of  little  importance  to  one 
so  rich  as  Sir  Robert,  but  of  great  consequence 
to  Lord  Amidown  in  the  matter  of  his  pride, 
and  also  as  it  regarded  his  sister's  situation, 
who  was  now  comparatively  dependent  upon 
her  friends  and  relations. 

"  There,  Walter,  you  remember  what  we 
were  talking  of  to-day  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  read  this  note — it  is  from  him. 
How  he  has  managed  to  send  it,  I  don't  know.'» 

"  I  should  go  to  see  him  most  decidedly," 
said  Walter,  after  running  over  the  note. 

"  Very  well — I  shall  do  so,  then,  let  what 
may  come  of  the  interview." 

The  proper  permit  was  accordingly  procured, 
and  Sir  Robert  prepared  to  visit  his  singular 
acquaintance  on  the  following  day,  in  the  damp 
cells  of  Newgate.  Walter  offered  to  go  with 
him,  but  he  preferred  to  go  by  himself. 

In  the  meantime,  while  the  robber  was 
breathing  the  damp  air  of  this  prison  house, 
he  called  to  mind  his  confinement  at  the  castle 
of  Amantz,  on  the  Rhine,  years  gone  by. 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 


A    SCENE    IN    NEWGATE. 


And  like  to  this  may  my  fate  be, 

To  swing  from  the  limb  of  a  leafless  tree.— ROBBER  SONG. 


LEAVING  the  family  of  Sir  Robert  Brompton 
to  enjoy  all  the  regal  comforts  of  his  princely 
mansion,  the  reader  must  come  with  us  for  a 
while  into  that  far-famed  place  of  confine 
ment,  Newgate — the  dreary  prison  of  the 
metropolis;  the  den  where  crime  and  sin  of 
every  description  has  its  representative,  of 
both  sexes  and  of  every  age.  A  Babel  of  sin 
reigns  within  these  walls,  where  so  many  evil 
spirits  congregate,  and  vice  seems  to  impreg 
nate  the  very  air. 

Unlike  the  present  mode  of  separating 
the  criminals,  unless  they  were  confined  for 
some  extraordinary  breach  of  the  laws,  such 
as  murder,  they  were  here  cast  into  large 
apartments  of  the  building,  and  herded  togeth 
er  like  so  many  cattle.  At  certain  hours  they 
were  permitted  to  go  out  into  an  open  square 
of  the  prison,  enclosed  by  high  walls  and 
guarded  by  soldiers,  where  they  presented  a 
most  heterogeneous  compound  of  human  na 
ture  horrid  to  behold.  There  were  decrepid 
old  men  and  women,  as  gray  in  sin  as  they 
were  in  years,  middle  aged  persons,  presenting 
all  the  physical  developments  of  the  prime  of 
life,  here  immured  and  pent  up,  like  so  many 
sheep  in  a  pen.  There  were  young  persons  also, 


male  and  female,  some  with  vice  strongly  im 
pressed  upon  their  young  faces,  and  others, 
whom  to  look  upon,  presented  no  tokens  of 
crime  or  guilt,  and  doubtless  some  there  were 
really  innocent. 

A  bustle  was  quite  apparent  in  one  corner 
of  the  yard  where  the  prisoners  were  now 
airing  themselves,  and  on  close  inspection, 
it  was  discernible  that  some  carpenters  were 
at  work  erecting  a  gallows  there.  Significant 
token  !  Some  of  those  nearest  the  spot  were 
cracking  vulgar  jokes  about  the  matter,  with  a 
hardened  indifference  that  bespoke  a  long 
familiarity  with  vice  and  crime.  Others  looked 
upon  the  scene  with  a  dull,  yet  curious  eye, 
and  seemed  to  lose  thought  as  to  what  the  ob 
ject  of  the  erection  was  in  the  minute  obser 
vation  of  the  detail  of  its  formation,  observing 
with  care  the  fitting  of  each  joint,  and  the 
manner  in  which  it  was  secured.  There  was 
one  looking  upon  it  with  a  pallid  cheek,  for 
its  significance  brought  home  to  his  mind  his 
own  chances,  perhaps.  On  one  side,  two  fe 
males  had  got  one  of  the  timbers  across  a 
pile  of  the  rest,  and  each  seated  upon  an  end 
of  it,  were  tilting ! 

Whata  strange  spectacle  that  place  presented. 


The  next  number  of  this  work  will  be  issued  on  Saturday,  hine  loth. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


CHAPTER  XL VI.— [CONTINUED.] 


There  might  have  been  a  hundred  crim 
inals  or  prisoners  strolling  there  at  this  mo 
ment,  mostly  awaiting  trial  for  various  offences. 
In  an  opposite  corner  to  that  where  the  gal 
lows  was  erecting,  sat  two  persons  upon  the 
bare  ground,  engaged  in  some  game.  They 
had  picked  up  some  shell  stones  which  they 
succeeded  in  marking,  and  were  now  gambling 
with  them  for  imaginary  piles  of  gold,  which 
were  represented  by  bits  of  chips  and  shavings 
broken  into  small  particles.  These  men  were 
beyond  the  prime  of  life,  and  yet  they  were 
as  much  absorbed,  apparently,  as  a  child  would 
have  been  in  this  simple  game ;  the  habit  of 
gaming  was  so  strong  upon  them,  that  even 
this  trifling  occupation  was  a  relief  and 
amusement. 

"  Peste  !"  at  last  exclaimed  one  of  the  men, 
whose  appearance  showed  him  to  be  a  French 
man.  "  I'm  very  much  tired  of  this.  I  have 
lose  all  mine  gold — you  have  robbed  me  al 
together.  I  am  von  beggar." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  other,  gathering  the 
chips  and  shavings  all  over  to  his  own  side. 

"  Vat  you  say  about  ze  new  prisoner  they 
lock  up  in  ze  cell?" 

"  That  feller  in  No.  18  over  there  ?"  said  the 
ether,  pointing  to  a  wing  of  the  building 
where  the  cells  were  numbered. 

"  Oui — exactement" 


"  O,  that's  Bill  the  Bold — don't  you  remem 
ber  him,  Chevalier  ?" 

"  Ah,  I  remember  ze  Bill  ze  Bold,  very 
much  too  well." 

"  Where  he  turned  up  from  no  one  knows ; 
he  hasn't  been  to  any  of  our  old  places  fer 
more  than  a  year,  but  he's  in  for  it  now,  thaf  s 
sure,  or  they  wouldn't  lock  him  up  in  that 
place,  away  from  the  rest  of  us." 

"  That  ees  very  true,"  said  the  little  French 
man,  whom  the  reader  will  remember  to  hare 
met  before. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Karl  Blasius  that  he 
was  confined  in  a  separate  place  from  su*k 
beings  as  those  who  thronged  the  court  or 
yard  beneath  his  window.  Not  but  that  fce 
was  as  deeply  sunken  in  crime,  and  perhaps  CTCJI 
more  so,  than  most  of  them,  but  yet  kis  mini 
was  so  superior,  his  mental  faculties  had  beem 
so  much  better  cultivated,  and  there  wai  a  •£- 
tive  spirit  and  pride  in  his  nature,  wfeich  \rowti 
have  but  poorly  brooked  the  mingling  with 
such  as  they  were  in  that  place.  True,  h« 
had  been  much  with  the  same  class,  but  not 
on  equal  terms.  He  had  always  been  master, 
and  above  his  fellows.  There  ^ie  would  have 
been  on  a  footing  with  the  meanest,  and  proba 
bly  the  jest  of  some  who  had  felt  his  authority 
in  a  different  situation.  He  looked  out 
through  the  bars  of  his  cell  with  strange  emo 
tions  upon  that  motley  assemblage,  and  he 


260 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


could  even  see  the  point  where  the  gallows 
was  erecting,  and  followed  out  a  long  train  of 
thought  suggested  by  the  sight  of  that  "  leaf 
less  tree." 

But  he  sat  now  musing  to  himself  in  the 
furthermost  corner  of  his  cell. 

He  had  been  impatiently  awaiting  the  ex 
pected  visit  of  Sir  Robert,  and  this  led  him  to 
recall  the  time  when  he  had  first  met  with 
him  in  his  native  valley.  From  one  circum 
stance  to  another,  his  mind  reverted  still  far 
ther  back  in  the  darkness  of  his  own  life.  He 
tried  to  recall  it  all  now,  even  from  his 
very  boyhood.  The  event  that  had  first 
driven  him  from  the  pale  of  society,  and 
made  him  the  enemy  of  the  law,  was  as  vivid 
ly  recalled  now  to  his  mind  as  its  reality  had 
appeared  many  long  years  before.  He  follow 
ed  up  those  events  and  their  connections,  to 
the  period  of  his  acquaintance  with  the  Lady 
Gustine,  and  the  minutest  circumstance  of 
that  period  was  depicted  in  his  memory.  He 
recalled  the  many  long  days,  weeks,  and 
months  of  his  confinement  at  Amantz,  his  al 
most  miraculous  escape,  his  course  over  the 
current  of  the  swift- running  river,  and  his 
escape  in  a  westward  bound  ship  to  the  Span 
ish  Indies.  His  bloody  and  dangerous  career 
there,  and  finally  step  by  step  he  renewed  his 
life  thus  to  the  present  hour. 

,And  then  he  fell  to  reflecting  upon  his 
probable  fate.  He  seemed  to  have  become 
possessed  of  a  singular  gloom  of  spirits  since 
he  had  been  confined  here ;  a  few  days  only 
had  passed,  but  he  had  changed  much.  The 
native  fire  of  his  eye  that  had  defied  the 
power  of  time,  which  had  written  its  lines  on 
all  else  of  his  physiognomy,  seemed  to  have 
become  dulled,  and  a  keen  observer  would 
have  detected. a  listlessness  of  expression  that 
told  of  a  growing  indifference  in  the  pos 
sessor  as  to  his  future  condition,  and  yet  at 
times  they  lighted  up,  as  though  occasion 
might  arouse  their  native  energy  yet. 

Karl  Blasius  could  obtain  no  information  as 
to  what  charge  had  led  to  his  arrest,  or  who 
had  brought  ^t ;  all  was  wrapped  in  mystery. 
To  his  chagrin  and  annoyance,  he  was  told 
that  his  trial  or  hearing  before  the  judges 
would  not  come  on  for  many  months,  and  that 
in  the  meantime  he  must  remain  thus  immur 
ed  in  his  gloomy  cell. 

After  he  was  informed  of  this  fact,  he  felt 


no  longer  in  haste  as  it  regarded  Sir  Robert's 
matters.  He  required  the  aid  of  some  person 
situated  like  him,  and  he  resolved  to  make  the 
most  of  the  secret  information  which  he  pos 
sessed,  and  which  he  knew  full  well  Sir  Rob 
ert  so  much  desired  to  understand.  Moreover 
he  felt  in  some  way  connected  in  his  interests 
with  him  as  it  regarded  his  business  matters, 
since  Sir  Robert  held  the  key  of  his  private 
apartment.  At  the  time  of  his  arrest,  the 
police  made  no  attempt  to  possess  themselves 
of  anything,  but  simply  to  take  note  of  the 
situation  of  affairs,  and  as  they  passed  from 
the  door,  the  robber  turned  to  Sir  Robert,  as 
will  be  remembered,  asking  him  to  take 
charge  of  the  key  for  him.  It  was  on  this 
very  day  that  the  jailer  had  informed  his  pris 
oner  of  the  matters  concerning  himself,  arid 
Karl  Blasius  sat  reflecting  upon  them  now, 
when  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  the  jailor 
admitted  Sir  Robert  Brompton. 

The  two  bowed  to  each  other,  but  paused 
for  the  jailer  to  leave  the  cell,  before  they 
spoke. 

More  than  an  hour  was  passed  by  them 
together  there.  The  result  of  which  was  of 
no  particular  satisfaction  to  Sir  Robert,  any 
farther  than  the  restoration  to  Lord  Amidown 
of  fifty  thousand  pounds.  The  robber  reveal 
ed  to  Sir  Robert  the  secret  of  his  wealth, 
and  where  he  might  obtain  the  money  that  he 
desired  thus  to  refund.  To  all  Sir  Robert's 
inquiries  as  to  the  secret  that  he  promised  to 
divulge,  he  recived  but  one  answer,  and  that 
was,  that  he  realized  it  to  be  the  only  claim 
upon  him  that  was  left,  and  that  once  divulg 
ed,  Sir  Robert  would  neither  heed  nor  care 
for  him  in  the  future. 

Richly  repaid  for  his  visit  in  the  pleasure  of 
restoring  to  Lord  Amidown  so  large  a  part  of 
his  losses,  Sir  Robert  fulfilled  the  errand  after 
leaving  the  robber ;  but  he  was  satisfied  that 
time  must  develop  the  secret  that  he  held. 

It  was  a  vivid  scene  that  closed  that  day. 
At  the  set  of  sun  the  gallows,  which  had  been 
nearly  all  day  erecting,  was  called  into  requi 
sition  to  perform  its  wonted  and  legitimate 
purpose.  The  prisoners  were  altogether  in  the 
yard  to  witness  the  scene  which  was  foolishly 
expected  to  operate  to  their  advantage,  and  to 
lead  to  their  reform.  From  his  cell  window 
the  robber  gazed  with  a  strange  fascination 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


261 


upon  the  execution,  as  it  progressed  stage  by 
stage. 

With  all  the  ceremony  and  pomp  that  such 
evil  scenes  are  always  clothed  in,  the  fearful 
deed  of  official  murder  was  commenced.  The 
victim,  a  young  man  who  else  might  have 
found  years  of  sad  repentance,  and  finally  of 
true  reform,  was  hurried,  with  all  his  sins 
fresh  upon  his  young  and  thoughtless  head, 
to  the  grave.  The  robber  saw  him  ascend  the 
scaffold  with  a  firm  step,  and  his  blood  thrilled 
through  his  veins  at  a  token  of  firmness  that 
challenged  his  admiration.  He  felt,  not 
withstanding  all  his  own  experience,  and  all 
the  daring  scenes  through  which  he  had  pass 
ed,  that  under  such  circumstances  his  own 
limbs  would  fail  him,  old  as  he  was  in  iniqui 
ty  and  sin.  That  boy  yonder,  suffering  now, 
perhaps  for  his  very  first  offence,  taught  him  a 
lesson,  and  set  him  an  example  that  was  be 
yond  his  power  and  ability  to  imitate.  That 
boy  was  his  master  in  spirit  and  firmness. 

This  thought  of  the  calmness  with  which 
the  boy  had  died,  seemed  to  trouble  him 
strangely.  He  could  not  forget  it,  but  walked 
backward  and  forward  in  his  cell,  musing  upon- 
the  scene  he  had  just  witnessed.  He  seemed 
all  at  once  to  fully  realize  that  his  own  end 
could  not  be  very  far  distant ;  and  yet  it  was 
not  the  fear  of  death  that  seemed  to  trouble 
him,  so  much  as  the  idea  that  had  just  come 
over  him,  as  to  whether  he  could  die  with 
firmness,  if  he  must  do  so  in  public,  or  wheth 
er  he  could  show  the  white  feather  and  play 
the  craven  before  the  crowd.  He  mused  thus 
to  himself,  until  at  last  a  thought  seemed  to 
suggest  itself  to  his  mind,  when  he  thrust  his 


hand  into  his  bosom,  and  drew  forth  a  small 
dagger,  so  minute  in  size,  that  it  had  escaped 
the  eye  and  search  of  the  officers  who  had 
first  placed  him  there.  He  looked  at  the  well- 
tempered,  but  tiny  instrument  for  a  moment, 
in  silence,  and  then  said,  half  aloud  : 

"  Ay,  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  this 
shall  free  me  from  all  doubt.  This  blade  is 
just  long  enough,  when  properly  handled,  to 
reach  the  vital  spot.  I  do  not  fear  to  do  that, 
no,  no — but  a  gaping  and  curious  crowd  to  see 
me  executed,  would  unnerve  me  ;  I  could  not 
go  to  my  death  as  I  have  always  trod  the 
earth!  But  I  need  not  despair.  True,  I 
have  done  enough  in  Italy,  on  the  ocean,  in 
Paris,  and  in  London,  to  condemn  me ;  but 
my  cards  have  been  carefully  played,  and  how 
few  know  me  in  more  than  one  character ; 
and  those,  why  they  are  not  such  as  to  witness 
against  me.  Some  idle  report  has  caused  my 
arrest,  and  confinement,  and  I  weary  in  wait 
ing  for  my  day  of  trial.  There  can  be  no 
witnesses — no,  no.  I'm  safe  enough — but 
curse  this  confinement." 

The  robber  talked  thus  to  himself  for  a 
while  longer,  then  said  : 

"  How  calmly,  with  what  firmness  that  boy 
died.  I  wish  I  had  not  seen  that;  what 
makes  me  think  so  much  about  it  ?  But  never 
mind,  never  mind — 1  have  my  resort  if  the 
worst  comes  to  the  worst." 

But  these  executions  were  of  frequent  oc 
currence,  and  the  robber  must  witness  them 
often  from  the  barred  window  of  his  cell.  A 
sad  prospect  for  a  guilty  man  to  look  upon, 
feeling  that  his  own  fate  most  likely  would  be 
of  a  similar  character. 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 


THE   COTTAGE   HOME. 


I  smile  no  more — but  all  my  days 

Walk  with  still  footsteps,  and  with  humble  eyes, 

An  everlasting  hymn  within  my  soul. 


WILSON. 


SIR  ROBERT  had  lately  noticed  the  melan 
choly  that  at  times  seemed  to  defy  Clara's 
attempts  at  disguise,  and  to  shroud  her  sweet 
face  in  a  mantle  of  black.  He  had  tried  to 
dispel  it  by  reasoning  with  her,  and  had  re 
ferred  to  her  prospects  in  life,  her  former 
cheerful  spirits,  and  a  hundred  trifling  argu 
ments  why  she  should  be  happy.  By  the 
most  kind  and  thoughtful  attention,  he  strove 
to  dispel  her  sombre  mood,  for  spite  of  her 
resolution  to  the  contrary,  she  could  not  now 
appear  so  careless  and  happy  as  she  used  to  do, 
with  a  crowd  about  her.  Hoping  by  a  change 
of  scene  to  awaken  her  once  more,  and  to  ren 
der  her  more  like  her  former  self,  her  patron 
proposed  a  country  residence  for  a  few  sum 
mer  months.  The  idea  was  acceded  to  with 
avidity  by  Clara,  she  foresaw  so  much  of  quiet 
and  such  opportunity  for  reflection,  and  undis 
turbed  communion  with  her  own  heart.  She 
was  vastly  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of  seeing 
and  living  even  for  a  short  period  in  the  midst 
of  shady  groves,  and  where  she  might  over 
look  the  rural  landscape.  Delighted  at  her 
apparent  interest  in  the  matter,  Sir  Rob 
ert  at  once  caused  to  be  prepared  a  quiet  resi 
dence  a  half-day's  journey  from  London,  where 


he  and  Clara,  with  such  of  the  family  as  chose 
to  come  down  occasionally,  might  find  agree 
able  accommodations.  In  this  pleasant  abode, 
-Clara  found  herself  domesticated  with  the 
kind  Mrs.  Marlow,  while  Sir  Robert  equally 
divided  his  time  between  London  and  Hare- 
dale. 

The  summer  months  had  already  commenc 
ed,  and  the  glad  earth  was  putting  forth  its 
wealth  of  vegetation,  the  soft  and  fragrant  flow 
ers  were  bursting  forth  from  every  hill  side, 
and  thickening  leaves  began  to  spread  them 
selves  about  the  lattice  of  the  cottage  window. 
The  birds  nestled  and  sung  in  the  graceful 
elms  that  overshadowed  the  door,  and  little 
sparrows  came  daily  to  pick  the  crumbs  that 
Clara  threw  forth  upon  the  smooth  gravelled 
walk.  A  freshness  as  pure  and  invigorating 
as  that  which  seemed  to  inspire  the  honey 
suckle  and  morning  glories  that  graced  the 
garden  walls,  also  seemed  to  impregnate  her 
sad  and  lonely  heart,  and  Mrs.  Marlow  told 
Sir  Robert  that  she  was  quite  like  herself. 

Clara  loved  to  walk  in  the  grove  that  ran 
back  of  the  cottage  until  it  ended  in  the  grave 
yard,  attached  to  the  village  church.  She 
would  take  a  book  with  her,  and  sitting  alone 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


263 


beneath  the  still  shade  of  the  trees,  read  to 
herself  or  muse  in  quietude.  Then  she  would 
walk  among  the  gray  old  tombstones,  and  try 
to  make  out  the  names  engraven  upon  each 
stone,  until  she  had  read  them  all,  and  felt 
half  as  though  she  knew  those  who  slept  be 
neath.  She  even  picked  out  a  quiet  spot  in 
a  remote  corner  of  the  grave-yard,  where  she 
told  Mrs.  Marlow  that  she  thought  she  could 
sleep  more  quietly  than  if  she  were  in  the 
tombs  that  were  built  in  the  city. 

"  O,  do  not  talk  about  such  things,  Clara," 
said  the  housekeeper ;  "  it  will  be  time  enough 
for  that  many,  many  years  hence.  You  must 
enjoy  many  happy  years  yet." 

A  faint  smile  was  the  only  answer  that 
Mrs.  Marlow  received.  But  after  a  little 
pause  she  asked: 

**  Are  you  happy,  Mrs.  Marlow  ?" 

"  O,  yes,  I  hope  so,  Clara,  as  happy  as  we 
can  be  in  this  life." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  it,"  said  Clara,  earnestly,  "  in 
this  life.  I  often  think  of  that,  and  wonder  if 
when  we  lay  down  to  sleep  in  the  grave,  our 
spirits  will  then  be  happy." 

"  You  mustn't  talk  so  seriously,  Clara ; 
think  of  pleasanter  subjects." 

"  Ah !  but  it  does  seem  to  me  that  I  should 
be  so  happy  to  lie  domi  in  one  long  dreamless 
sleep,  forgetting  all  the  past.  I  could  be  will 
ing  to  die,  I  think,  this  very  hour." 

Mrs.  Marlow  marked  the  quiet,  unexcited 
manner  of  her  speech,  and  she  almost  trem 
bled  as  she  saw  how  honestly  Clara  spoke. 
She  marked  too  that  the  brightness  of  her 
eyes  had  faded  of  late,  and  she  thought  that 
the  color  of  her  cheek  was  fading  gradually. 
But  of  these  things  she  said  nothing,  though 
they  inwardly  gave  her  much  pain,  for  she 
loved  Clara  better  and  more  tenderly  every 
day. 

When  the  Sabbath  came,  Clara  and  Sir 
Robert  would  go  and  listen  to  divine  ser 
vice  at  the  village  church,  and  Clara  enjoyed 
it  far  better  than  she  did  in  the  crowded  aisles 
of  the  richly  decorated  town  temples.  Indeed 
she  seemed  refreshed  by  the  sincere,  though 
simple  service,  and  listened  to  the  words  of 
the  young  curate  with  absorbed  attention. — 
He  was  a  young  man,  but  an  enthusiast  in  his 
profession,  and  possessed  of  a  soul  baptized  in 
the  dictates  of  revealed  religion.  He  would 
dwell  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  upon  the  career 


and  suffering  of  the  lowly  Jesus,  and  delight 
ed  in  proclaiming  the  never  failing  love,  for 
giveness  and  impartial  grace  of  the  great  Fath 
er  of  all,  the  Shepherd  of  our  souls. 

In  her  walks,  Clara  sometimes  met  Earnest 
Brandon,  and  at  first  they  past  each  other 
with  a  slight,  but  polite  recognition  ;  but  the 
young  curate,  in  the  ordinary  discharge  of  his 
duty,  called  occasionally  upon  all  those  who 
listened  to  his  ministrations,  and  thus  he  was 
brought  to  meet  with  Clara  at  her  cottage 
home.  His  quiet,  thoughtful  and  religious 
turn  of  mind  strongly  impressed  her,  because 
it  was  in  accordance  with  her  own  feelings, 
and  the  curate  on  his  part  seemed  singularly 
interested  in  one  so  pensive  and  intelligent, 
who  seemed  to  be  suffering  under  a  wounded 
spirit ;  therefore  when  they  met  it  was  often 
to  walk  on  together,  and  to  converse  upon 
those  matters  that  his  calling  would  naturally 
suggest. 

Clara  found  a  strange  balm  in  his  conversa 
tion  ;  she  gave  up  her  mind  entirely  to  the 
study  of  the  creed  that  he  believed,  and  so  ar 
dently  taught.  She  was  never  tired  of  hear 
ing  him  dwell  upon  the  forgiving  kindness  of 
Christ,  and  the  holy  consohtion  that  the  re 
pentant  sinner  was  sure  to  obtain. 

The  visits  of  the  curate  became  at  last  of 
almost  daily  occurrence,  and  the  two,  absorbed 
truly  and  fully  in  the  holy  theme  that  formed 
the  subject  of  their  discussion,  grew  more  and 
more  intimate  in  soul  and  feeling,  without 
realizing  it,  until  the  young  and  devout  follow 
er  of  the  Saviour  felt  a  new  fire  kindled  in  his 
breast,  and  realized  that  while  he  was  making 
a  convert  of  the  fair  young  girl,  he  was  also 
losing  his  own  heart.  Her  great  beauty  of 
person,  her  more  valued  beauty  of  intellect, 
had  strongly  impressed  him,  until  he  felt  that 
he  loved  her  almost  too  well. 

The  idea  of  such  a  state  of  things  between 
her  and  Earnest  Brandon  had  never  entered 
Clara's  mind.  She  felt  the  warmest  friend 
ship  and  respect  for  him,  but  love  she  had  none 
to  bestow.  She  had  loved  once,  she  could 
never  love  again,  for  love  with  her  seemed  to 
be  a  guilty  thing.  "Love?  what  have  I  to 
do  with  love  ?"  she  used  to  ask  herself. 

She  was  walking  one  afternoon  m  the  grove 
with  the  ycung  curate,  when,  after  touching 
upon  many  congenial  topics  of  conversation, 
they  had  seated  themselves  upon  a  grassy 


264 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


knoll.  Earnest  Brandon  had  been  more  than 
usually  pensive  and  thoughtful,  and  there  was 
now  a  pause  of  some  moments  in  the  conver 
sation.  At  last  he  said  : 

"  Clara,  we  have  been  much  and  happily  to 
gether,  and  in  discussing  those  subjects  con 
nected  with  our  greatest  and  most  lasting  in 
terests,  we  have  studied  well  each  other's 
hearts—" 

The  curate  paused  for  a  moment,  while 
Clara  turned  an  anxious  eye  upon  him. 

"  Jn  short,  Clara,  after  the  delightful  com 
munion  that  I  have  enjoyed  with  you,  I  feel 
that  I  love  you." 

"Mr.  Brandon!" 

11  Have  I  offended  you  ?"  he  asked,  quickly, 
as  he  marked  the  tones  of  her  voice. 

"  No,  not  offended,  but  grieved  me.  O,  sir, 
never  harbor  for  me  any  other  feelings  than 
those  of  a  friend — a  dear  and  earnest  friend  I 
shall  always  be  glad  to  have  you  esteem  me." 

"Must  this  be  so,  beyond  any  hope  of 
change,  Clara?" 

"  I  can  never  feel  any  differently  upon  the 
subject.  O,  how  wrong  it  has  been  for  me  to 
draw  so  much  upon  your  time,  enjoying  your 
society,  your  teachings,  and  your  kindness  so 
constantly,  and  only  to  bring  about  this  re 
sult." 

' "  Nay,  reproach  not  yourself,  Clara.  Has 
not  my  enjoyment  of  your  society  been  also 
most  sweet  ?  Surely  I  have  been  paid  many- 
fold  for  my  own  labors,  by  your  aptness,  and 
by  the  spirit  in  which  you  have  received  the 
doctrine  I  teach." 

"  If  I  have  done  aught  to  create  such  a  feel 
ing  as  you  profess,  Mr.  Brandon,  I  pray  you 
to  forgive  me,  for,  believe  me,  I  could  not  will 
ingly  have  given  rise  to  sentiments  that  I  can 
never  encourage." 

"  I  know  you  would  not.  Say  no  more, 
nor  blame  yourself  in  the  least,"  said  the  cu 
rate,  "  we  will  meet  none  the  less  frequently, 
I  trust,  Clara,  but  in  the  future  as  friends, 
trusting  and  confiding  friends  only." 

"  0,  a  thousand  thanks,"  she  said,  with  an 
animation  that  lit  up  with  fire,  as  it  were,  her 
sweet  face. 

They  parted  then.  The  curate,  ardent  and 
imaginative  as  he  was,  yet  was  not  foolish 
enough  to  pine  over  his  disappointment.  He 
only  sought  to  forget  it  by  more  earnest  ap 
plication  to  his  profession.  His  heart  was  so 


deeply  wedded  to  his  calling,  that  he  could 
more  easily  turn  to  it,  even  from  the  fond  hope 
he  had  cherished,  than  most  persons  could 
have  done.  His  day  dream  was  over,  but  his 
purpose,  his  grand  aim  of  life  remained,  and 
though  it  cost  him  many  hours  of  struggle  af 
ter  he  reached  his  home  on  leaving  Clara,  yet 
he  strove  with  his  passion  and  prayed  fervent 
ly  for  aid  lo  help  him  on  in  his  duty,  and  to 
keep  him  from  too  earnest  a  worldly  affec 
tion. 

Clara  was  differently  affected  ;  in  her  sen 
sitiveness  she  imagined  herself  greatly  t» 
blame  for  that  which  had  transpired.  Be 
sides  she  could  not  screen  herself  from  her 
thoughts  as  the  curate  did.  She  had  no  routine 
of  duty  to  engage  in  of  a  character  to  make 
her  forget,  even  temporarily,  the  fresh  sadness 
that  had  been  caused  by  Mr.  Brandon's  mis 
understanding  her.  Though  she  had  often 
blessed  the  chance  that  had  brought  her  into 
the  country  where  she  had  enjoyed  the  beauties 
of  nature  so  fully  and  entirely,  yet  now  she 
could  not  but  wish  that  she  had  never  come 
hither. 

The  curate  was  but  little  less  assiduous  in 
his  attendance  at  the  cottage.  Perhaps  they 
walked  together  less  than  they  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  doing,  bur^the  same  studies  and 
themes  served  them  for  conversation,  though 
the  subject  that  had  caused  Clara  so  much 
pain,  was  never  referred  to  even  for  a  single 
moment.  His  attentions,  which  were  of  the 
most  thoughtful  and  delicate  character,  were 
yet  so  strongly  tinctured  with  respect,  that 
outward  observers  could  have  detected  no 
token  of  love.  Mrs.  Marlow  said  to  one  of 
her  neighbors,  who  was  a  little  inquisitive, 
that  the  curate  and  Clara  were  only  like  a 
brother  and  sister. 

Months  rolled  on  thus,  during  which  time 
Clara's  disposition  and  character  had  under 
gone  a  marked  change.  The  forced  spirits 
that  she  had  been  so  long  in  the  habit  of  in 
dulging  in,  were  laid  aside  altogether,  and  a 
soft  resignation,  that  could  hardly  be  called 
melancholy,  had  taken  possession  of  her  sweet 
face.  She  was  perhaps  in  reality  more  happy 
than  when  she  had  so  schooled  herself  at  Sir 
Robert's  to  belie  her  feelings,  for  then  she 
felt  a  half  consciousness  of  guilt  and  decep 
tion  upon  her  heart  all  the  day  long ;  while 
now  she  gave  herself  up  to  those  reflections 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


265 


which  her  studies  in  religious  matters  had  sug 
gested. 

Edith  and  Walter,  with  Lord  Amidown  and 
his  sister,  not  unfrequently  came  down  to 
Haredale  to  see  Clara,  but  although  they  said 
nothing  to  her  of  the  impression  of  their  vis 
its,  yet  when  they  went  away  they  never  failed 
to  remark  how  changed  she  had  grown  since 
she  had  come  from  the  city.  Edith,  who  ten 
derly  loved  her,  would  walk  with  Clara 
through  all  her  quiet  haunts  in  the  grove  and 
along  the  meadows,  and  in  the  gray  old  church 
yard,  and  would  enter  into  all  her  simple,  but 
heartfelt  enjoyment,  at  every  theme  of  the  sug 
gestive  scene  about  them,  in  the  flowers,  the 
birds,  and  the  twilight  hour. 

"  These  are  sweet  and  happy  subjects,  dear 
Clara ;  invigorating  to  all  the  senses." 

"  0,  yes,  and  they  put  one  so  at  peace  with 
in,  Edith,  and  give  such  assurance  of  divine 
goodness." 

"  True,  Clara,  and  yet  I  fear  that  an  undue 
contemplation  of  these  things  leads  you  into 
melancholy.  Why,  you  do  not  seem  to  sleep 
at  all.  No  matter  how  early  I  get  up,  I 
always  find  you  are  before  me,  feeding  those 
little  tame  sparrows  that  fly  to  your  hands,  or 
attending  to  the  pretty  flower-bed  yonder.  I 
do  not  blame  you  for  loving  these  things,  O, 
no,  Clara ;  but  then  too  constant  and  absorbed 
a  pursuit  of  any  one  subject  wearies  and 
and  weakens  the  mind." 

"  But  I  was  never  so  happy  in  town,  Edith, 
as  I  am  now.  I  never  knew  myself  and  na 
ture  so  well.  0,  you  don't  know  how  my 
heart  has  grown  with  the  blossoms  and  flow 
ers  since  I  came  here  in  the  spring,  and  how 
it  has  ripened  as  the  thick  foliage  and  the 
seeds  have  matured,  and  the  harvest  day  by 


day  approaches.  Sometimes  I  feel  half  in 
clined  to  pray  that  I  too  may  be  gathered  in 
with  the  rest  of  the  harvest,  and  be  laid  to  rest 
where  I  showed  you." 

"  Say  not  so,  Clara,  you  make  me  feel  very 
sad,"  answered  Edith,  with  her  cheeks  wet 
with  tears.  "  I  know  you  are  better  and  less 
worldly  than  I  am ;  perhaps  I  am  too  much 
taken  up  with  selfish  things — I  feel  that  I  am 
— but  I  can  appreciate  your  feelings.  And 
yet,  believe  me,  dear  Clara,  it  is  not  best  to  in 
dulge  in  melancholy,  though  it  is  sweet,  ah  ! 
very  sweet  to  the  sorrowing  heart.  I  have 
tasted  the  cup  myself,  ay,  and  drunk  its  bitter 
est  depths." 

"  Not  its  bitterest  depths,  Edith,"  said  her 
companion,  with  emphasis. 

"  I  thought  so,  Clara." 

"  Ah!  Edith,  you  always  had  one  sustain 
ing  consciousness  that  was  worth  more  than 
all  else,  a  strength  that  none  can  appreciate 
who  have  not  realized  its  loss.  You  always 
knew,  Edith,  let  chance  and  circumstance 
play  whatever  freaks  they  would  with  you, 
that  still  in  yourself  you  were  innocent  and 
pure !" 

"  May  heaven  grant  me  to  the  last,  Clara, 
as  pure  a  soul  as  you  possess." 

We  have  carried  the  reader  thus,  to  witness 
Clara's  cottage  life,  because  we  desire  more 
fully  to  develop  the  character  and  disposition 
of  this  lovely  girl.  It  had  only  seemed  to  re 
quire  '  the  pure  air  and  soft  influences  of  the 
country  to  bleach  and  thoroughly  purify  her 
gentle  spirit,  and  the  belongings  of  her  cottage 
home  had  brought  out  in  its  truth  the  entire 
loveliness  of  her  sweet  disposition,  and  prepared 
her  at  heart  for  higher  and  nobler  aspirations. 


CHAPTER    XLVIII, 


THE    CURATE'S    DAUGHTER. 


A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year. 


GOLDSMITH. 


LEAVING  Clara  for  a  while  to  pursue  those 
thoughtful  walks  in  the  grove  behind  her  cot 
tage  home,  which  she  loved  so  well,  we  must 
refer  to  other  characters  in  our  varying  plot. 
It  is  still  in  these  country  scenes  that  we  wish 
to  keep  you,  gentle  reader,  at  least  for  the 
present,  and  at  a  spot  not  many  miles  from 
Clara's  rural  home. 

There  is  no  country  in  the  world  whose 
pastoral  beauties  can  compare  with  those  of 
some  of  the  rural  counties  of  Old  England. — 
Tracts  of  land,  enriched  by  immemorial  cul 
ture,  present  during  the  spring  and  summer 
the  sweetest  variety  of  herbage  and  foliage, 
and  while,  interspersed  with  productions  that 
minister  to  the  wants  of  man,  there  is  much 
that  is  purely  ornamental,  and  addresses  it 
self  especially  to  the  taste.  Thus,  the  cottage 
of  the  poorest  peasant — and  heaven  knows 
that  some  of  the  peasantry  of  "  Merrie  Eng 
land"  are  poor  enough — is  surrounded  by 
flowers,  overgrown  with  clematis  and  eglan 
tine,  and  can  boast  its  climbing  roses,  and  its 
verdurous  shade  tree. 

The  territorial  divisions  which,  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic,  are  formed  />f  rough  posts  and 
rails,  or  ragged  and  unsightly  stone  walls, 
overgrown  with  brambles,  there  consist  of  lux 


uriant  hedge-rows  of  buckthorn  or  hawthorn, 
the  latter  forming  at  certain  seasons  of  the 
year  a  living  wall  of  odorous  blossoms  j  while 
here  and  there,  as  if  to  prevent  monotony,  rise 
tall  elms,  or  branching  oaks,  or  graceful  lin 
dens,  among  the  branches  of  which  the  little 
birds  sit  swinging  and  warbling  in  the  alter 
nate  sunshine  and  shadow.  Under  these  trees 
repose  in  the  sultry  noontime,  groups  of  cattle 
well  fed,  sleek  and  shining  from  perpetual  care, 
while  upon  the  uplands  browse  flocks  of  sheep 
almost  as  white  as  the  fleecy  clouds  that  spot 
the  firmament  above  them.  In  some  of  these 
enclosures  wave  billowy  fields  of  grain,  now 
green  as  the  water  of  a  shallow  bay,  anon  gold 
en  as  the  same  waves  enlightened  by  a  mel 
low  sunrise. 

The  line  of  the  horizon,  and  the  surface  of 
the  country,  is  just  sufficiently  broken  to  re 
lieve  the  eye,  differing  totally  from  the  dead 
level  of  the  rich  and  fertile  Netherlands,  while 
the  parks  and  preserves  of  the  landed  gentle 
men,  with  their  vast  ancestral  trees,  communi 
cate  an  air  of  grandeur  and  massiveness  to  the 
expanded  landscape. 

These  romantic  scenes,  where  nature  has 
done  so  much,  and  art  has  so  closely  followed 
in  her  footsteps  as  to  seem  a  better  nature, 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


267 


would  appear  to  be  peculiarly  fitted  for  the 
dwelling-place  of  gentle  hearts  and  guileless 
souls.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  evil  passions 
and  vain  desires  which  run  riot  in  crowded 
cities,  would  here  perish,  death-stricken  by 
the  calm  and  silent  rebuke  of  the  beautiful 
and  the  true.  But  human  nature  is  the  same 
everywhere,  and  there  are  passions  so  strong, 
and  wills  so  self-sustained,  that  no  external  in 
fluence  can  tame  or  exterminate  them. 

It  was  in  one  of  those  rural  counties  which 
we  have  referred  to,  that  the  Rev.  Ambrose 
Warden  dwelt,  the  curate  of  a  little  parish  but 
a  few  leagues  from  Haredale,  at  a  period  some 
years  prior  to  the  commencement  of  our  story. 
He  had  struggled  with  indigence  while  pur 
suing  his  preparatory  studies,  and  his  career 
at  Oxford  was  marked  alike  by  studious  assi 
duity  and  personal  privation.  At  length  he 
graduated  with  all  the  honors  of  his  Alma  Ma 
ter.  The  friendship  of  an  early  school-fellow 
ef  Harrow  procured  him  a  curacy,  and  though 
his  annual  stipend  was  but  little  more  than 
fifty  pounds  a  year,  yet  with  his  simple  tastes 
and  habits  he  felt  content,  and  would  have 
deemed  the  sum  ample  had  not  the  shafts  of 
the  blind  god,  which  spare  the  cassock  of  the 
curate  no  more  than  the  steel  cuirass  of  the 
soldier,  penetrated  his  heart. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Warden  fell  in  love  with  the 
daughter  of  a  parishioner,  poorer,  if  possible, 
than  himself.  Whether  he  had  any  actual 
promises  of  church  preferment  to  rely  upon, 
or  whether  his  passion  blinded  him  to  the  fu 
ture,  we  know  not,  but  he  boldly  led  Miss 
Emeline  Woodley  to  the  altar,  and  carried 
her  home  in  happy  triumph  to  Woodbine  Cot 
tage.  The  union  was  a  happy  one,  though 
the  toil  and  care  that  devolved  at  once  upon  the 
bride  of  a  poor  country  clergyma^,  soon  be 
gan  to  tell  upon  the  delicate  frame  of  the  cu 
rate's  wife. 

Yet  the  gentle  being  struggled  bravely  with 
fortune,  and  was  but  too  happy  when  she  suc 
ceeded  in  disguising  her  failing  health  and 
active  labor  from  the  anxious  eyes  of  her  hus 
band,  and  when  at  last  she  sank  away  in  his 
arms,  he  attributed  her  death  to  some  tempo 
rary  malady,  rather  than  to  a  long  course  of 
hardship  and  privation.  But  she  was  happy 
both  in  her  life  and  in  her  death,  and  with 
her  last  aspirations  she  commended  her  little 
Emma  to  the  charge  of  her  husband  and  the 


kind  care  of  Providence,  in  the  full  faith  that 
both  were  adequate  to  temper  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb. 

"  My  time,  dear  husband,  has  come ;  it 
seemeth  good  to  the  Lord  to  call  me  home, 
and  why  should  1  repine  1  My  only  concern 
is  for  you  and  our  dear  little  Emma,  but  hea 
ven  will  bless  you  both." 

The  husband  could  only  press  the  thin  hand 
of  his  dying  wife,  while  he  bent  over  her  to 
hide  his  tears. 

With  a  soft  and  tender  smile  upon  her  pale 
face,  the  young  mother  breathed  her  last. 

Faithfully  did  the  widowed  husband  fulfil 
his  promise  to  the  departed.  No  mother 
could  have  been  kinder  or  more  considerate  ; 
his  child  was  all  in  all  to  him,  and  he  doted 
upon  it  both  for  its  own  sake,  and  the  memory 
of  its  dearly  beloved  mother.  Mr.  Warden 
had  studied  the  peculiarities  and  the  intrica 
cies  of  the  female  heart ;  not  as  many  men  do 
for  the  purpose  of  depravation  and  destruc 
tion,  but  to  know  where  to  administer  consola 
tion,  where  support,  and  where  aid.  Under 
his  care  and  experience,  Emma  grew  up  beau 
tiful,  gentle,  affectionate,  charitable  and  pious. 
Her  affection  was  not  of  that  kind  which 
wastes  itself  in  sickly  sentiment ;  her  charity 
not  of  that  description  that  neglects  the  house 
hold  hearth,  to  scatter  its  sympathies  and 
benefits  abroad;  nor  was  her  piety  of  that 
stamp  which  begins  and  ends  in  cold  formali 
ties  and  observances,  in  lip-worship  and  like 
external  devotion.  God — her  father — her 
fellow  creatures — these  were  the  objects  of  a 
love  that  varied  only  in  intensity,  but  whose 
unity  was  intangible.  "  To  be  good  and  to  do 
good,"  was  the  basis  of  her  entire  creed,  and 
she  fully  lived  up  to  the  spirit  of  her  heart- 
logic. 

Thus  Woodbine  Cottage,  though  bereft  of 
the  gentle  mother's  spirit,  was  nevertheless 
the  paradise  of  constant  and  quiet  joy,  and 
Mr.  Warden  was  a  man  to  be  envied  for  kis 
home  relations.  The  village  teemed  with 
praise  and  sincere  love  for  the  occupants  of 
the  parsonage,  and  the  humble  curate  with 
his  meagre  income,  was  a  happy  man. 

Until  her  nineteenth  year,  Emma  had  found 
that  her  domestic  and  charitable  duties,  togeth 
er  with  her  studies,  were  all  sufficient  for  the 
occupation  of  her  mind  and  heart,  and  she 
had  no  luxurious  habits,  and  no  idle  moments 


268 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


for  day-dreaming;  her  imagination  had  never 
been  betrayed  into  any  dangerous  idealizing. 
She  had  never  lost  herself  in  the  glowing  and 
enticing  fields  of  romance ;  she  only  reflected 
the  real  life  about  her,  and  her  heart  was  as 
simple  as  it  was  true. 

But  the  fates  bring  queer  things  to  pass, 
and  Emma  was  destined  to  see  a  great  change 
come  over  her  quiet  life. 

It  so  chanced  that  Francis  Marlow,  the  son 
of  Charles  Marlow,  the  old  school  fellow  of 
her  father,  to  whom  he  owed  the  curacy  that 
supported  him,  visited  his  father's  country  seat 
in  the  neighborhood,  to  enjoy  a  few  days' 
sporting,  previous  to  his  departure  for  the 
East.  It  must  be  premised  that  Sir  Charles 
Marlow  had  himself  died  in  India,  that  the 
villa  alluded  to  had  been  for  many  years  neg 
lected,  and  perhaps  entirely  forgotten  by  its 
wealthy  owner,  and  that  Francis,  with  only 
a  younger  brother's  portion,  had  been  provided 
for  by  a  cornetcy  in  one  of  the  East  India 
Company's  cavalry  regiments,  and  had  noth 
ing  but  his  sword  and  his  horse  for  his  future 
dependence.  But  he  was  full  of  life  and 
spirit,  generous,  free-hearted,  and  manly  in 
every  prompting  of  his  heart ;  the  future  was 
unclouded  before  him,  and  his  heart  was 
light. 

It  was  natural  for  the  young  officer  to  call 
upon  the  old  friend  of  his  late  father,  of  whom 
he  remembered  to  have  heard  him  speak ;  it 
was  natural  for  him  to  meet  with  a  cordial 
reception,  and  it  was  also  natural  for  him  to 
be  strongly  impressed  with  the  beauty  of  a 
young  girl,  whom  he  found  blooming  like  a 
lily  in  this  sequestered  valley.  An  intimacy 
followed,  the  dangers  of  which  Mr.  Warden 
did  not  perceive  until  he  found  that  his 
daughter's  affections  were  irrevocably  en 
gaged. 

It  was  not  in  his  nature  then  to  reproach 
Francis  with  having  taken  advantage  of  the 
susceptibility  of  his  daughter,  for  it  was  very 
evident  to  the  parent  that  the  error  was  a 
mutual  one,  and  besides,  the  young  cornet, 
generous,  handsome  and  noble-hearted,  was 
the  very  son-in-law  he  would  have  chosen, 
had  not  his  poverty  forbidden  a  union  which 
could  only  entail  distress  and  misery  upon 
both  parties.  This  he  frankly  told  Francis. 

"  But,  sir,"  said  the  ardent  young  soldier, 
"  I  have  a  brother  you  know  in  London,  who 


inherits  the  whole  of  my  father's  large  prop 
erty  ;  I  will  apply  to  him  for  aid,  and  if  that 
shall  come,  then — " 

"Then  I  cannot  withhold  my  consent  to 
your  union,"  replied  the  curate. 

"  I  am  sure  of  success,  then,"  he  replied, 
warmly,  anticipating  a  prompt  and  generous 
response  from  his  brother. 

"  Be  not  too  confident,  Francis,"  said  the 
curate,  who  knew  the  human  heart  better 
than  his  young  friend. 

"  I  have  spoken  with  your  father,  Emma, 
dear,  and  he  consents." 

"  Consents,  Francis  ?" 

"  Yes,  provided  my  brother  will  assist  me 
pecuniarily,"  replied  her  lover. 

He  wrote  his  brother  an  affectionate  and 
sincere  letter,  stating  exactly  how  he  was  situ 
ated,  and  soliciting  a  modest  allowance  from 
the  surplus  of  Sir  Charles's  fortune,  at  the 
same  time  -pledging  his  honor  to  reimburse 
him  when  his  own  exertions  should  be  crown 
ed  with  success.  In  his  letter  to  his  brother, 
he  described  to  him,  only  as  a  lover's  pen  could 
do,  the  extraordinary  beauty,  both  mental  and 
personal,  of  her  whose  hand  he  sought,  and 
finally  ended  with  an  appeal  to  his  brotherly 
regard.  The  reply  was  a  harshly  worded  re 
fusal,  that  insulted,  as  well  as  disappointed, 
the  young  brother. 

"  Francis,"  said  the  curate,  "  under  the 
circumstances,  I  feel  it  my  duty,  both  for  Em 
ma's  sake  and  your  own,  that  you  part  at 
once.  Perhaps  fortune  may  smile  on  your 
efforts,  and  then,  if  you  are  both  constant — you 
may  be  united." 

"  I  know  your  motives  too  well,  dear  sir,  to 
question  them  for  a  moment.  My  regiment 
will  sail  in  a  week,  and  I  shall  join  them  at 
once ;  but  I  shall  leave  my  heart  in  Woodbine 
Cottage,"  he  replied,  sadly. 

With  breaking  hearts,  the  lovers  parted, 
promising  mutual  fidelity,  and  consoling  each 
other  with  words  of  hope. 

Soon  after  the  departure  of  Francis,  who 
seemed  to  carry  with  him  all  the  sunshine  and 
contentment  of  the  parsonage,  Mr.  Warden 
received  word  that  he  had  sailed.  Most  fer 
vent  prayers  ascended  to  the  throne  of  grace 
for  the  safety  of  the  young  adventurer  upon 
the  perilous  deep.  Weeks  had  passed,  and 
Emma  was  beginning  to  recover  from  her  agi 
tation  and  distress,  and  to  find  consolation  in 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


269 


her  daily  and  religious  duties,  when,  one  eve 
ning,  as  she  was  standing  at  the  cottage  gate, 
a  figure  was  seen  approaching,  which  she 
seemed  to  recognize  through  the  uncertain 
twilight.  In  another  moment  she  was  clasped 
in  the  arms  of  her  lover. 

"  Francis !"  she  exclaimed,  in  tones  of  min 
gled  astonishment  and  pleasure. 

"  Yes,  your  own  Francis,"  was  the  tender 
reply  that  greeted  her. 

"  But  how  can  this  be  possible  ?" 

"  A  freak  of  fortune,  Emma." 

"  But  the  papers  said  that  you  sailed  with 
the  regiment  for  India." 

" That  was  all  very  true;  but  I  have  been 
badly  used  by  the,  winds  and  waves." 

"  Wrecked  ?" 

•'  Yes,  gentle  one.  We  were  driven  back 
by  a  tempest  and  wrecked  upon  the  coast  of 
Cornwall." 

"  Fearful  mishap  !" 

"  Rather  happy  chance,  Emma,"  continued 
her  lover. 

"  How  so,  Francis  ?" 

"  Because  my  misfortune  has  proved  a 
blessing.  I  have  seen  my  brother — he  has 
relented — he  grants  me  all  that  I  could  ask  of 
him,  and  I  come  back  with  gold  to  redeem  my 
beloved.  Your  father  will  no  longer  withhold 
his  consent — we  will  be  married  at  once,  and 
try  together  if  the  ocean  will  not  be  more 
merciful." 

"  O,  let  us  hasten  at  once  to  my  father  with 
this  news." 

"What— to-night?" 

"  To-night !  yes — are  you  not  eager  to  em 
brace  him  ?" 

"  0,  certainly." 

"  How  cool  you  speak,  Francis  ;  why  my 
father  will  be  delighted  to  see  you." 

"  Yes,  Emma,  but  you  must  remember  that 
I  have  just  escaped  from  a  shipwreck,  and 
that  I  have  been  so  exposed,  and  suffered  so 
severely,  that  I  am  hardly  myself." 

Emma  seemed  glad  to  understand  this,  for 
there  was  a  want  of  cordiality  in  his  manner 
that  was  quite  different  from  himself,  she 
thought.  Bat  sfee  was  too  much  bewildered 
to  be  very  critical  now,  and  she  brought  him 
at  once  into  the  house,  and  to  her  father's 
side.  Mr.  Warden  was  of  course  surprised 
and  delighted  at  the  wanderer's  return,  and 


asked  him  many  questions  in  relation  to  his 
adventures  and  future  prospects. 

His  replies  with  regard  to  the  latter  subject, 
particularly,  were  very  satisfactory,  and  he  ex 
hibited  authority  from  his  brother  to  draw  upon 
him  to  an  unlimited  amount.  The  only  draw 
back  to  this  change  of  circumstances  was  the 
necessity  which  existed  of  removing  Emma 
immediately  from  the  paternal  roof,  and  mak 
ing  her  the  companion  of  her  husband's  dis 
tant  wanderings.  But  the  good  pastor  con 
cealed  his  grief,  and  where  is  the  woman's 
heart  that  would  not  cling  fondly  to  the  part 
ner  of  her  choice,  though  ties  scarcely  less 
dear  are  to  be  severed  by  the  union  ?  And 
thus  was  it  with  the  gentle  Emma  Warden. 

The  next  day,  Mr.  Warden  joined  their 
hands,  and  the  following  hour,  Emma,  now 
become  Mrs.  Marlow,  took  a  heart-rending 
farewell  of  her  father,  and  sprang  into  a  post 
chaise  that  was  to  convey  her  with  her  hus 
band  to  the  sea-shore ;  for  he  had  represented 
to  them  that  his  regiment,  having  been  all 
saved,  were  once  more  just  about  to  embark 
again  for  their  destination. 

Francis  appeared  strangely  abstracted,  and 
his  manner,  passionate  and  cold,  by  turns,  sur 
prised  his  wife  by  its  singularity.  His  prin 
cipal  concern  seemed  to  be  to  hurry  on  the 
post  boys  and  the  horses,  until  towards  night 
they  drove  up  through  an  avenue  of  ancient 
elm  trees,  to  the  door  of  a  stately  mansion, 
embowered  and  almost  hidden  in  verdant  fo 
liage. 

"  Come,  my  dear,  we  will  stop  here  for  the 
night,"  he  said,  preparing  to  alight. 

"Why,  what  place  is  this,  Francis?" 

"  An  old  mansion-house,  but  a  very  com 
fortable  one,  I  assure  you." 

"  But  I  thought  we  were  to  go  on  board 
your  ship  to-night  ?" 

"  Ah,  true,  true — I  forgot  that ;  but  we  will 
talk  those  affairs  over  after  we  get  into  the 
house." 

Emma  leaned  upon  his  arm,  but  her  heart 
almost  failed  her,  at  the  strange  coldness  she 
met  in  her  husband. 

A  number  of  servants  in  sumptuous  liveries 
awaited  them  at  the  door ;  Emma  was  as 
tounded  at  all  she  beheld.  But  her  compan 
ion  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  this,  simply 
leading  her  on,  and  receiving  the  ready  hom 
age  and  respect  of  the  many  servants,  until 


270 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


they  at  last  found  themselves  within  a  sump 
tuously  furnished  drawing-room. 

"  Emma,"  he  said,  after  closing  the  door, 
and  approaching  her. 

"  Well,  Francis  ?" 

"  Am  I  Francis  ?" 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  you  almost 
frighten  me  by  such  conduct  and  such  singu 
lar  questions." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  strange  business,"  replied 
her  husband,  musing. 

"  What  is  strange  ?" 

"Why,  Emma,  you  must  forgive  the  de 
ception  I  have  practised  upon  you!" 

"Deception,  Mr.  Marlow?" 

"  Yes,  Emma,  you  are  thoroughly  and  most 
egregiously  mistaken." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  They  say  that  Jove  laughs  at  love's  per 
juries.  If  this  is  so,  now  let  him  laugh  his 
fill,  for  you  are  wedded,  not  to  your  first  love 
— a  pauper  younger  son — but  to  Sir  Charles 
Marlow,  the  richest  land-holder  in  all  of  Eng 
land,  and  one  who  will  love  and  take  care  of 
you  far  better  than  the  poor  India  cornet 
could  do." 

"Do  I  hear  aright?  am  I  awake?  what 
does  all  this  mean  ?" 

"  You  are  in  the  full  possession  of  all  your 
faculties,  Emma." 

"  No,  no,  no.  This  is  a  dreadful  dream," 
she  cried,  shuddering. 

"  Not  so,  Emma,  but  a  bright  reality. — 
Know  that  my  brother  and  myself  are  exam 
ples  of  oq£  of  those  striking  freaks  of  nature, 
by  which  she  sometimes  assimilates  two 
members  of  a  family  by  a  resemblance  which 
defies  the  closest  scrutiny.  Were  Fran«is 
here,  and  myself  standing  side  by  side,  the 
eyes  of  love  even  would  be  baffled  in  seeking 
to  identify  the  object  of  its  preference.  We 
are  alike  in  every  particular." 

"  Except  in  soul,"  retorted  the  agonized 
girl,  almost  frantic  with  sobs. 

"  Hush,  proud  girl,  and  hear  me  out,"  said 
the  baronet. 

"  Go  on,  sir,  it  is  fitting  that  I  should  know 
the  truth  now,"  replied  the  young  wife,  with 
a  bitter  sarcasm  expressed  in  her  voice,  and 
an  expression  of  contempt  wreathing  her  hand 
some  lips. 

"  My  brother  wrote  to  me,  as  you  doubtless 
know;  that  letter,  filled  as  it  was  with  glow 


ing  thoughts  and  descriptions  of  thee,  portray 
ing,  I  acknowledge,  most  faithfully  your  beau 
ty,  fired  my  imagination,  and  filled  me  with  a 
desire  to  see  one  who  was  so  beautiful. — 
I  came  down  into  the  country  in  disguise,  and 
hovering  about  Woodland  Cottage,  saw  you, 
and  acknowledge  that  my  brother's  letter  had 
even  fellen  far  short  of  the  bright  reality  he  des 
cribed.  To  refuse  his  application  for  aid,  and 
to  send  him  despairing  to  the  East,  was  the 
work  of  a  man  who  never  yet  permitted  any 
obstacle  to  impede  the  progress  of  his  will. — 
To  personate  my  brother,  to  impose  on  you 
and  your  father,  and  at  last  to  make  you  so 
quickly  mine,  were  easy  tasks  under  the  cir 
cumstances.  And  now  I  have  triumphed, 
and  forever  possess  a  legal  title  to  your  hand 
and  person,  if  not  your  heart." 

"  False  and  perjured  villain,"  cried  the  ex 
cited  victim.  "  Your  every  word  is  false ; 
not  only  my  heart,  but  my  hand  and  person 
are  free,  and  rather  than  yield  to  you,  I  will 
spring  from  yonder  turret  window  and  dash 
my  limbs  to  atoms  on  the  pavements  below." 

"Go  on,  my  brave  one,  go  on."  said  the  bar 
onet,  with  provoking  coolness. 

"  0,  that  I  should  have  been  so  deceived !" 
she  exclaimed,  wringing  her  hands  bitterly, 
"  and  my  poor  dear  father  too,  alas !  I  fear 
'twill  break  his  heart.  Was  ever  such  perfidy 
known  before  ?" 

"  There  is  no  mood  that  doth  not  become  thee," 
he  continued,  as  he  stood  watching  his  victim 
with  folded  arms,  "  and  I  think-  a  little  spirit 
rather  heightens  the  style  and  effect  of  that 
pretty  face  of  thine,  my  wife  !" 

'•  Call  me  not  by  that  name ;  it  is  saered, 
and  if  you  abuse  it,  heaven  will  signally  pun 
ish  thee.  I  am  no  wife  of  thine;  no  laws 
will  sanction  such  a  vile  deceit  as  you  have 
practised,  and  I  defy  you." 

«*  Wow  I  have  seen  thee  thus,  I  like  thee  all 
the  better  for  this  spirit.  Who  would  wish  to 
win  or  wear  a  tame  and  over-willing  heart  ? 
Thou  art  a  very  Catherine,  but  I  will  tame 
thee  like  Petruchio." 

"  Indeed  !" 

"  Yes,  and  indeed." 

"  Sir  Charles  Marlow,  you  know  not  what 
you  say  ;  you  know  not  what  you  have  done, 
or  would  do." 

"  Think  you  so  ?" 

"  I  do,  and  so  you  will  find  it  to  be." 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


271 


"  You  shall  see  then  ere  long  that  I  under 
stand  myself  and  you  more  than  passing  well," 
he  said,  smiling. 

"  I  fear  you  not,"  she  answered.  "  Heaven 
will  protect  me  from  such  a  villain  as  thou 
art." 

"  I  have  tamed  prouder  spirits  than  thine," 
said  the  baronet,  "  and  yours  is  not  of  the  sort 
to  outsoar  mine.  I  leave  you  now  to  reflec 
tion,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  by-and-by  you 
will  come  to  your  senses." 

"  That  I  have  done  already,  though,  alas  ! 
at  so  late  a  moment,"  she  replied. 

He  withdrew,  and  Emma  heard  the  door  of 
the  drawing-room  double-locked  behind  him ; 
but  her  heart  did  not  fail  her,  she  even  felt 
calmer  and  more  self-possessed  now.  Her 
early  education  had  taught  her  to  place  entire 
reliance  upon  divine  Providence,  and  she 
knelt  now  and  prayed  fervently  for  fortitude 
and  guidance  in  her  present  situation.  How 
fervently  she  prayed — and  her  prayer  was  an 
swered  as  we  shall  see. 

That  night,  before  the  return  of  her  betray 
er,  she  had  opened  one  of  the  high  windows 
of  the  drawing-room,  and  leaped  fearlessly  and 
unharmed  to  the  ground.  From  the  hated 
towers  of  Marlow  House,  she  fled  with  the 
speed  o/  a  hunted  deer,  and  at  the  expiration 
of  three  days  of  toilsome  wandering,  came 
once  more  to  Woodbine  Cottage,  to  tell  her  sad 
story  to  her  father  and  only  protector.  His 
Christian  principles  forbade  his  taking  the  re 
venge  that  his  manliness  at  first  prompted  him 
to,  and  he  only  prayed  that  a  wrong  spirit 


might  not  actuate  his  heart  towards  one  who 
had  so  foully  wronged  his  dear  child.  His 
health  was  naturally  delicate,  and  this  misfor 
tune  seemed  to  break  him  down  most  sudden 
ly,  for  a  few  short  days  and  weeks  only  pass 
ed,  before  the  curate  slept  in  the,  village 
church-yard. 

Sad  was  now  the  condition  of  the  gentle  Em 
ma.  She  wrote  to  India  to  her  lover  to  apprise 
him  of  his  brother's  conduct  and  her  bereave 
ment,  but  no  answer  was  ever  received.  Anoth 
er  letter,  sent  upon  the  supposition  that  the 
first  might  have  failed,  elicited  no  reply, 
and  with  a  settled  melancholy  upon  her 
heart,  Mrs.  Marlow — for  by  her  father's  advice 
she  had  still  retained  the  name  that  the  law 
alone  could  justly  relieve  her  of — adopted  such 
industrial  means  as  should  enable  her  to  pro 
cure  a  respectable  livelihood,  and  being,  un 
like  her  mother,  blessed  with  health  and 
strength,  she  was  now  comparatively  comfort 
able. 

Her  nominal  husband  never  preferred  a 
claim  to  her  hand,  well  knowing  that  he  could 
not  sustain  such  a  course  either  by  law  or  jus 
tice.  In  time,  a  holy  calm,  and  a  sweet  resig 
nation  settled  over  her  chastened  spirits,  and 
few  who  witnessed  her  quiet  demeanor,  her 
active  benevolence,  her  cheerful  performance 
of  her  duties,  could  imagine  that  her  placid 
exterior  hid  so  dark  and  pregnant  a  story  of 
the  heart. 

Such  was  Mrs.  Marlow  when,  after  the 
lapse  of  a  few  years,  circumstances  brought 
her  in  contact  with  Sir  Robert  Brompton. 


CHAPTER    XLIX 


LOVE   AND  PRIDE. 


O,  gentle  Romeo, 

If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully  ; 
Or,  if  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I'll  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee,  nay, 
So  thou  wilt  woo  ;  but,  else,  not  for  the  world. — SHAKSPEARE. 


SUCH  was  the  history  of  the  kind-hearted 
Mrs.  Marlow,  who  had  served  Sir  Robert  so 
faithfully,  and  who  had  endeared  herself  so 
much  to  Edith  and  Clara.  After  her  early 
experience,  she  had  grown  to  be  the  kind- 
hearted  and  thoughtful  being  that  we  have 
represented.  Solicitous  to  do  her  duty,  con 
scientious,  highly  respected,  even  by  Sir  Rob 
ert  himself,  and  ever  striving  to  do  good  where 
it  was  in  her  power,  though  in  ever  so  humble 
a  way.  Mrs.  Marlow  was  not  yet  forty  years 
of  age,  her  hair  was  dark  and  glossy,  her 
'Complexion  fair,  and  her  general  character  of 
features  highly  pleasing.  The  beauty  of  her 
childhood  was  not  yet  gone,  while  her  manners 
had  the  quiet  and  subdued  character  that 
might  be  supposed  to  attach  itself  to  her  situ 
ation  in  Sir  Robert's  household. 

But  Clara  and  herself  were  together  now 
at  the  cottage,  and  no  better  companion  could 
have  been  chosen  for  the  fair  but  unhappy 
girl,  than  Mrs.  Marlow.  After  the  explana 
tion  that  had  taken  place  between  Clara  and 
the  young  curate,  she  had  necessarily  felt 
some  delicacy  in  addressing  him  as  she  had 
done  heretofore,  and  for  this  reason  she  turn 
ed  to  Mrs.  Marlow,  and  for  the  first  time,  ap 
peared  to  realize  the  depth  of  her  mind,  and 
the  pure  religious  tone  that  seemed  to  actuate 


it.  Indeed  she  seemed  to  have  found  new 
life  in  the  dear  companionship  of  her  who 
had  been  so. kind  and  thoughtful  in  her  behalf 
for  a  long  period. 

Sir  Robert  knew  nothing  of  his  house 
keeper's  former  life ;  he  had  become  acquaint 
ed  with  her  in  some  casual  excursion  to  the 
cottage  or  neighborhood  where  they  now  resi 
ded,  and  had  been  recommended  by  a  friend, 
who  said  he  had  known  her  father  well,  to 
engage  her  in  the  capacity  which  she  still  oc 
cupied.  But  Clara  and  herself  were  now 
thrown  almost  entirely  upon  each  other  for 
amusement,  and,  for  the  first  time,  Clara  al 
luded  one  day  to  the  past,  and  asked  Mrs. 
Marlow  about  her  former  life.  A  mutual  del 
icacy  had  kept  them  from  speaking  of  this 
subject  to  each  other,  until  Clara  had  seemed 
to  have  lost  all  pride,  and  to  have  grown  thus 
dejected.  Clara  listened  with  much  interest 
to  the  story  which  the  reader  is  already  con 
versant  with,  and  in  turn  made  Mrs.  Marlow 
more  of  a  confidant  than  she  had  ever  done 
any  human  being  before  this  period. 

In  the  meantime  Walter  was  pressing  his 
suite  in  turn  with  the  Lady  Josephine. 

But  agpew  phase  had  been  put  upon  this 
proposeo%connection,  and  the  friendship  of 
Walter — Lord  Amidown  having  received  the 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


273 


large  sum  of  money  that  Karl  Blasius  had 
voluntarily  returned  to  him  through  Sir  Rob 
ert  Brompton,  and  had  thus  been  enabled  to 
pay  off  all  demands  upon  him,  and  to  once 
more  reinstate  his  sister  in  the  elegant  home 
from  whence  his  extravagance  had  at  one 
time  expelled  her.  Here  she  was  again  sur 
rounded  by  those  fair-weather  friends,  who 
had  temporarily  withdrawn  from  her  society, 
and  when  they  had  observed  the  familiar 
manner  in  which  she  received  the  advances 
of  the  young  East  Indian,  Walter  Manning, 
they  did  not  hesitate  to  inform  her  that  she 
should  weigh  well  the  consequences  of  an  inti 
macy  that  might  disgrace  her  descent,  and  de 
bar  her  from  participating  in  those  circles  to 
which  she  had  been  born. 

Lord  Amidown's  sister  had  gone  too  far  al 
ready  to  recede,  that  is  to  say,  she  had  lost 
her  heart,  and  yet  the  busy-bodies  who  were 
constantly  buzzing  like  insects  in  her  ears, 
could  not  but  affect  her  judgment,  at  least  in 
some  degree,  though  to  do  her  justice,  she  felt 
that  she  loved  Walter,  and  that  she  must  al 
ways  do  so,  let  what  might  transpire.  Wal 
ter  could  not  help  discovering  this,  and  he 
shrewdly  divined  the  cause  at  once.  Though 
it  made  him  quite  unhappy,  he  said  nothing 
about  the  matter,  but  continued,  as  far  as  he 
was  permitted  to  do  so,  his  attentions  to  her 
he  loved. 

As  to  Edith  and  Lord  Amidown,  they  were 
only  too  happy,  and  the  time  for  their  union 
was  already  fixed  upon.  Walter  was  too 
proud  to  refer  to  the  matter  that  we  have  men 
tioned  tp  Josephine's  brother,  while  he  was  far 
too  much  taken  up  with  his  own  prospects  and 
happiness,  to  scan  those  of  Walter  and  his 
sister. 

As  we  have  already  said,  the  young  East 
Indian  was  a  young  man  of  marked  and  pe 
culiar  manly  bearing  and  beauty,  his  figure  was 
exceedingly  graceful  and  attractive,  added  to 
which,  his  mental  cultivation  was  of  the 
rarest  kind,  and  his  views,  and  manner  of 
discussing  subjects,  were  exceedingly  en 
tertaining.  For  these  qualities  he  was  a  fa 
vorite  wherever  he  was  thrown,  and  even  in 
the  distinguished  circles  which  he  met  at  Jo 
sephine's  house,  he  was  very  popular  at  once, 
and  indeed  he  became  so  much  so  as  to  cause 
quite  a  revolution  in  the  state  of  affairs  as  it 
regarded  his  position  with  Lady  Josephine. 
18 


"  Say,  Beverly,"  remarked  one  young  gal 
lant  to  another,  during  a  party  at  Lady  Jose 
phine's,  "  this  fine  looking  chap  who  is  only  a 
plain  Mister,  seems  to  carry  everything  before 
him  here." 

"  Fact,"  said  the  other,  lazily,  quizzing  Wal 
ter  as  he  spoke. 

"  'Twas  said  that  Lady  Josephine  loved  the 
fellow,  and  was  engaged  to  him,  but  she  flies 
higher  now  her  fortune  has  come  back  again. 
She's  given  him  up  as  a  lover,  but  she 
patronizes  him  still." 

"  Do  you  call  that  giving  him  up  ?"  said  he 
who  had  been  addressed  as  Beverly,  referring 
to  Walter,  who  was  now  walking  across  the 
room  with  the  finest  lady  in  the  room,  chatting 
familiarly  as  she  leaned  upon  his  arm,  lady 
Josephine  all  the  while  watching  them,  and 
biting  her  fan  impatiently  for  very  vexation. 
"  Do  you  call  that  giving  him  up,  my  fine  fel 
low  ?  Why,  gads  life,  she's  jealous,  immense 
ly  jealous." 

"  The  waters  are  a  little  troubled,  that's  a 
fact,"  replied  the  other,  regarding  Lady  Jose 
phine  with  a  smile  at  her  earnestness. 

"  Troubled  ?  it's  a  regular  tempest." 

And  this  was  a  fact,  for  when  lady  Jose 
phine  saw  Walter  so  warmly  appreciated  by 
others,  she  began  to  review  her  own  con 
duct  towards  him,  and  she  saw  that  her  heart 
was  his,  wholly  his,  in  spite  of  all  the  cold 
worldly  considerations  that  her  officious  friends 
adduced  to  persuade  her  to  the  contrary,  and 
she  would  have  given  worlds,  had  they  been 
at  her  control,  to  revoke  the  little  coolness 
that  had  already  been  evinced  by  her  towards 
Walter  Manning.  She  felt  uneasy,  unhappy, 
miserable,  and  out  of  conceit  with  everybody. 

In  the  meantime,  Walter  studied  her  char 
acter  well,  though  he  did  not  seem  to  do  so. 
He  pretended  much  devotion  to  a  young  heir 
ess  named  Lambeth,  a  titled  lady,  rich  and 
beautiful,  and  she,  forsooth,  seemed  greatly 
smitten  with  him.  They  were  very  intimate, 
much  together,  and  agreed  charmingly,  and 
many  a  broad  hint  was  thrown  out  in  Lady 
Josephine's  hearing  as  to  their  regard  for  each 
other.  Of  course,  all  this  was  like  throwing 
sparks  among  dried  chips,  and  only  set  her 
jealousy  in  a  blaze. 

Lady  Lambeth  was  but  little  over  twenty 
years  of  age,  but  she  was  possessed  of  remark 
able  penetration  of  judgment,  and  a  rare 


274 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


knowledge  of  the  human  heart  for  one  so 
young.  She  had  made  Walter's  acquaint 
ance  at  the  Amidowns,  with  great  satisfac 
tion  to  herself,  because  she  saw  how  different 
he  was  from  the  herd  of  gaudy  butterflies  that 
generally  followed  in  her  suit.  His  plain,  un 
affected,  yet  highly  refined  manner  was  a  rara 
avis  in  her  circle,  and  altogether  she  felt  that 
she  could  have  respected  and  loved  him  for 
life,  had  she  not  discovered  that  he  was  al 
ready  bespoken  for  Lady  Josephine.  But  her 
feelings  led  her  to  a  close  watchfulness  of 
Walter  in  his  intercourse  with  her  friend,  and 
she  soon  discovered  the  true  state  of  affairs. 
Appreciating,  as  she  did,  the  manly  character 
of  the  young  East  Indian,  she  resolved  to 
serve  him  if  it  was  in  her  power  to  do  so. 

She  could  easily  realize,  in  her  keen  discern 
ment,  how  Lady  Josephine  was  affected  in  the 
matter ;  she  saw  that  at  heart  she  loved  Wal 
ter  truly,  and  that  Walter  too  loved  her  as 
sincerely,  and  she  thought  that  she  could  serve 
the  interests  of  both.  It  was  not,  however,  by 
going  to  Josephine  Amidown  and  arguing  with 
her;  no,  no,  she  knew  the  human  heart  too 
well  for  that,  she  must  apply  herself  to  some 
other  mode  of  procedure,  and  she  accordingly 
laid  her  plans  quietly,  but  shrewdly. 

"  Mr.  Manning,"  she  said  to  him,  as  she 
leaned  familiarly  upon  his  arm,  "you  love 
Lady  Josephine  ?" 

"  Lady,  yes,  if  it  be  proper  for  me  to  ac 
knowledge  it  to  another." 

"  Her  friends  have  been  trying  to  influence 
her,  I  know,  against  the  match  that  her  heart 
would  lead  her  to.  She  lacks  the  resolution 
to  make  herself  happy,  and  to  take  the  neces 
sary  steps  in  spite  of  the  interference  of  oth 
ers." 

"  You  are  very  frank, 'madam,"  said  Wal 
ter,  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  manner  and 
subject  of  her  conversation. 

"  It  is  my  way,  Mr.  Manning.  Believe 
me  to  be  your  friend,  and  Josephine's  also,  and 
govern  yourself  by  my  suggestions  for  a  short 
time,  and  I  will  warrant  you  perfect  success  in 
your  suit  with  her." 

"  I  know  not  how  to  thank  you  for  such 
disinterested  kindness,  Lady  Lambeth.  It 
will  by  my  pride  to  obey  you  in  everything, 
and  to  improve  any  suggestion  you  may  be 
pleased  to  make." 

"  That  is  right.     I  see  you  will  be  an  apt 


pupil.  Now,  give  me  your  arm,  if  you  please, 
thus.  We  are  going  over  to  examine  the  pic 
ture  opposite;  excuse  me  if  I  lean  rather 
heavily"  she  continued,  smiling. 

This  conversation  had  taken  place  in  Lord 
Amidown 's  drawing-room,  and  though  the  tones 
of  voice  were  too  low  to  be  overheard  by  a 
third  party,  yet  Lady  Josephine  saw  the  inti 
macy,  and  marked  it  well.  Walter  did  not 
require  to  force  his  spirits  in  order  to  appear 
interested  and  vivacious  with  the  pretty,  re 
fined  heiress,  who  leaned  so  familiarly  upon 
his  arm ;  his  blood  was  all  on  fire  at  the  inti 
macy  and  tender  glances  that  she  lavished 
upon  him,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  could 
realize  they  were  intended  solely  for  effect 
upon  Lady  Josephine.  But  she  was  so  enter 
taining,  so  handsome,  so  high-bred  and  accom 
plished,  that  Walter  was  completely  dazzled, 
and  almost  forgetting  Lady  Josephine,  he 
played  the  part  that  was  assigned  to  him  with 
a  truthfulness  that  ere  a  fortnight  had  passed, 
had  in  more  than  one  instance  drawn  forth  a 
truthful  sigh  from  Lady  Lambeth.  Indeed  she 
found  that  where  she  had  intended  to  play  a 
fictitious  part,  she  had  very  nearly  become  in 
earnest,,  and  she  could  not  but  acknowledge 
that,  under  other  circumstances,  she  should 
have  been  desperately  in  love  with  Walter. 

Matters  were  in  this  state  at  the  time  when 
the  scene  occurred  of  which  the  two  gallants, 
Beverly  and  his  friend,  had  spoken  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  when  Lady  Josephine's 
manner  had  been  so  marked  as  to  attract  their 
attention. 

As  to  Walter,  he  found  himself,  to*  use  a 
familiar  term,  in  clover.  The  Lady  Lambeth 
was  so  attentive  that  the  part  he  played  was 
not  feigned ;  he  was  almost,  if  not  quite,  in 
earnest,  and  this  Lady  Josephine  saw  most 
clearly,  and  on  the  occasion  referred  to,  retir 
ed  to  her  private  room  to  cry  with  vexation 
over  the  feelings  that  she  realized  after  ob 
serving  the  conduct  we  have  described. 

A  few  weeks  of  this  familiarity  had  brought 
matters  into  such  a  situation,  that  they  requir 
ed  an  explanation.  Lady  Josephine  felt  that 
she  could  bear  this  state  of  suspense  no  longer, 
besides  which  Lady  Lambeth  appeared  to  be 
more  a%l  more  familiar  every  day  with  Wal 
ter,  and  indeed  comments  from  others  began 
to  reach  her  ears  concerning  this. 

The   gay  saloon  was    cleared  at  last  one 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


275 


night,  after  a  more  than  usually  brilliant  eve 
ning,  and  Walter,  either  by  accident  or  de 
sign,  seemed  to  be  the  very  last  person  to 
withdraw,  and  when  he  approached  Lady 
Josephine  to  take  leave,  his  observant  eye  told 
him  at  once  that  the  crisis  had  come,  and  that 
the  present  moment  must  make  or  mar  his  fu 
ture  relation  to  her. 

"Mr.  Manning!" 

"  Lady  Josephine !" 

A  most  embarrassing  silence  ensued  for 
nearly  a  minute,  in  which  the  lady  stood  with 
her  eyes  riveted  upon  the  carpet,  and  Walter 
almost  trembled  to  hear  what  she  would  say. 
He  loved  her  tenderly,  and  his  heart  had  often 
rebuked  him  for  the  part  that  he  felt  Lady 
Lambeth  was  causing  him  to  personate  ;  and 
yet  how  could  he  longer  continue  his  at 
tentions,  when  he  saw  them  coldly  received, 
as  they  had  been,  while  the  object  of  them 
was  influenced  by  the  arguments  of  her  aris 
tocratic  friends. 

"  Walter,"  she  repeated. 

He  marked  the  change  in  her  mode  of  ad 
dress,  and  his  heart  beat  quickly  at  this  evi 
dence  of  interest,  while  he  drew  still  nearer  to 
her  side. 

"  Have  I  offended  you  ?" 

"  Offended  me,  lady  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  you  should  have  so  avoided  me 
of  late." 

Ah !  Lady  Josephine,  do  you  think  that  I 
have  voluntarily  done  this  ?" 

"  Ho\v  else,  Walter,  could  it  be  ?  Surely 
yoir  are  your  own  master." 

'T*Jot  in  your  presence,  lady.  If  I  have 
happened  to  avoid  you,  it  has  only  been  be 
cause  I  thought  the  attention  which  1  tender 
ed  was  no  longer  acceptable.  Since  we  were 
so  intimate,  lady,  there  has  been  a  great 
change  in  your  prospects,  and,  perhaps,  as 
change  brings  change,  your  feelings  are  not 
the  same  that  I  had  supposed  them  once." 

"  Walter,  it  is  you  who  are  changed.  You 
love  the  Lady  Lambeth."  As  she  said  this,  she 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears ;  her  feelings  seemed 
to  have  become  uncontrollable. 

"  Are  these  tears  for  me  ?"  he  asked,  gently 


soothing  her  agitation.  "  Ah  !  Josephine,  do 
you  still  love  me  ?" 

"  Walter,  you  know  that  I  do." 

"  Then,  believe  me,  dearest,  1  love  you,  and 
as  devotedly  as  ever  before." 

The  spell  was  broken,  and  for  them  to  sit 
down  together  there,  and  scan  the  past,  mutu 
ally  forgiving  and  explaining,  was  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world.  The  lady  ac 
knowledged  frankly  the  influence  that  had 
been  brought  to  bear  upon  her,  and  that  all  the 
while  she  heeded  these  heartless  promptings, 
she  was  unhappy. 

"  Nothing,  dear  Josephine,  shall  part  us 
again,  now  that  we  thoroughly  understand 
each  other,"  he  said,  pressing  her  hand  tender 
ly  within  his  own. 

She  could  only  answer  his  appeal  by  si 
lence;  but  the  confiding  manner,  the  clear 
sunshine  of  joy  that  chased  away  the  tears 
from  her  face,  were  more  eloquent  than  words. 
What  though  "the  course  of  true  love  never 
does  run  smooth,"  the  very  difficulties  and 
troubles  that  are  encountered  but  add  zest  to 
the  final  attainment  of  the  soul's  desire.  'Tis 
not  the  object  most  easily  won  that  is  most  priz 
ed,  but  rather  that  which  costs  us  labor,  and 
mayhap  even  pain  and  anxiety  to  call  our  own. 

Thus  it  was  with  both  Walter  and  Jose 
phine  ;  they  were  even  happier  now  that  the 
rainbow  had  arched  the  broad  heaven  of  their 
love,  than  they  would  have  been  had  no  in 
tervening  clouds  for  a  moment  obscured 
the  brilliancy  of  their  hopes. 

Of  course,  Lady  Lambeth  soon  realized 
this,  and  though  she  said  nothing,  yet  once 
she  did  give  Walter  a  look  of  intelligence  that 
he  could  not  but  understand,  and  on  his  part 
he  took  occasion  to  acknowledge  to  her  that 
she  had  done  him  such  a  favor  as  no  one  else 
might  have  jdone,  and  that  his  heart  would 
ever  acknowledge  the  indebtedness.  As  Lady 
Lambeth  gave  him  her  hand  to  kiss,  after  the 
close  of  this  gratuitous  service  on  her  part, 
Walter  felt  it  tremble  slightly  within  his  own, 
their  eyes  met,  and  he  saw  that  their  intimacy 
had  ceased  not  one  moment  too  soon  for  the 
happiness  of  both ! 


CHAPTER   L. 


THE    TRIAL. 


Ceaae,  triflers;  would  you  have  me  feel  remorse? 

Leave  me  alone — nor  cell,  nor  chain,  nor  dungeons, 

Speak  to  the  murderer  with  the  voice  of  solitude. — MATURIN'S  BERTRAM. 


WHILE  Clara  was  tending  flowers  and  pet 
ting  little  sparrows  at  Haredale,  while  Walter 
was  threading  the  mazy  paths  of  love,  now 
coquetting  with  Lady  Lambeth,  and  now  re 
viewing  his  past  promises  with  Lady  Jose 
phine,  while  Lord  Amidown  and  Edith  were 
quietly  enjoying  the  sweets  of  each  other's 
society,  and  while  Sir  Robert  Brompton  divided 
his  attention  equally  among  them  all,  now 
moralizing  with  Clara,  and  now  driving  out  in 
the  Park  with  Edith — we  say  while  all  these 
matters  were  transpiring,  Karl  Blasius  lay 
immured  in  his  gloomy  cell,  dejected  and 
miserable. 

Months  have  passed  since  we'first  saw  him 
there — weary,  long  and  trying  months  to  him, 
and  most  wretchedly  had  he  become  reduced 
by  the  physical  suffering,  caused  by  want  of 
fresh  air  and  exercise,  and  the  far  more 
bitter  gnawings  of  conscience.  When  he  had 
been  confined  at  Armantz,  and  from  whence 
he  so  signally  escaped,  he  was  a  much  young 
er  man,  his  spirits  were  more  pliant,  and  re 
bounded  again  from  the  occasional  depression 
that  overcame  him.  But  now  he  was  older — 
older  in  years,  and  older  in  sin ;  his  conscience 
carried  a  heavier  weight  now,  and  he  felt  at 


times  as  though  he  could  not  long  survive  this 
accumulation  of  miseries. 

And  yet,  for  all  this,  he  cherished  hopes  of 
soon  being  released  from  his  unhappy  confine 
ment,  and  once  more  feeling  himself  free  to 
go  where  he  would.  How  he  envied  the 
doves  that  filled  the  prison  cots,  as  he  saw 
them  wheel  about  their  little  open  doors,  and 
feeding  their  young,  dash  out  again,  and  fly 
away  far  off  over  the  prison  top,  free  and  un 
restrained.  He  had  succeeded  in  enticing  a 
pair  of  them  to  come  daily  to  his  grated  win 
dow,  where  he  fed  them !  Ay,  this  fierce 
and  bloody  man  would  watch  now  impatient 
ly  for  the  hour  to  come  when  the  doves  would 
eat  of  the  food  saved  from  his  prison  fare  ! 

Strange  how  circumstances  may  change 
the  heart  of  man ;  he  was  as  gentle  with 
these  doves  as  a  little  child  would  have  been ; 
his  arm  that  had  been  raised  so  often  to  spill 
his  brother's  blood,  was  as  light  as  a  woman's 
now,  as  it  smoothed  the  glossy  plumage  of  his 
feathered  pets,  and  there  was  ever  an  answer 
ing  'fcsponse  within  his  breast  when  the 
doves  turned  their  eyes  up  to  look  into  his 
face,  after  they  had  eaten  of  his  scanty  fare. 
Yes,  thus  it  really  was — Heaven  had  left  some 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


277 


of  the  angel  still  in  that  dark  and  guilty 
man's  heart.  The  half  effaced  image  of  his 
Maker  still  was  there ! 

He  was  allowed  no  recreation,  no  books,  no 
employment,  but  seemed  doomed  to  a  terrible 
idleness  that  was  fearful,  because  it  turned 
his  mind  so  continually  and  actively  in  upon 
himself.  He  envied  the  joy  of  convict  labor 
ers  who  passed  sometimes  within  his  sight 
on  their  way  to  break  stones,  for  they  had 
employment — their  minds  were  occupied. 
He  looked  back  upon  his  confinement  at  Ar- 
mantz,  with  regret  that  he  was  not  able  now 
to  be  as  happy  even  as  he  then  was.  -  His 
jailer  rarely  vouchsafed  a  word  to  him,  and  his 
tongue  half  forgot  its  office. 

A  spider  that  had  weaved  its  nest  across 
the  topmost  corner  of  his  grated  window,  was 
an  object  as  minutely  watched  in  all  his  do 
ings,  as  though  the  prisoner's  very  life  depend 
ed  upon  the  little  insect.  The  spider  seemed 
at  last  to  know  him,  and  not  to  hasten  to  the 
deep  crevice  and  hide  itself  when  he  drew 
near,  but  kept  busily  spinning  its  infinite  num 
ber  of  threads,  so  fine  that  the  robber  could 
only  discover  them  by  taking  into  view  a 
large  number  at  a  glance  One  day  he  fell 
asleep,  with  one  hand  upon  the  bar,  and  the 
spider  stung  him,  and  this  brought  to  his 
mind  a  strange  train  of  thoughts. 

His  hand  became  swollen,  and  painful,  but 
it  seemed  to  be  a  mental  relief  to  him,  and  he 
would  not  apply  for  any  medicines  or  bandages 
for  it,  but  watched  the  subtle  working  of  the 
poison,  and  studied  its  course  in  each  stage. 
It  was  occupation,  even  bearing  the  pain, 
which  at  times  was  most  acute,and  relieved  his 
mind  from  the  fearful  and  never-ceasing 
wakeful  dreams  that  oppressed  it.  The  virus 
having  at  last  exhausted  itself,  by  being  taken 
up,  and  becoming  absorbed  in  the  system, 
the  hand  became  once  more  well. 

Thus,  as  we  have  said,  months  passed  over 
the  robber's  head,  and  the  date  drew  near 
when  it  had  been  intimated  to  him  that  his 
trial  would  take  place.  Sir  Robert  had  twice 
called  upon  him  during  this  period,  once  in 
relation  to  the  care  of  the  ill  gotten  wealth, 
which  had  been  secreted  by  the  robber,  and 
this  had  been  properly  disposed  of,  as  the 
rooms  he  had  occupied  for  his  mystic  purposes 
were  now  engaged  to  other  tenants.  He 
had  also  procured  respectable  counsel  for  the 


robber,  that  he  might  not  kck  for  a  proper  and 
reasonable  legal  defence,  in  behalf  of  his 
life. 

The  lawyer  thus  retained  had  visited  him, 
and  satisfied  himself  on  all  the  necessary 
points,  as  it  regarded  the  prisoner's  defence, 
and  as  he  could  do  nothing  more  until  he  was 
aware  of  what  witnesses  and  charges  would 
be  brought,  he  had  not  deemed  it  necessary 
further  to  consult  with  his  client,  and  there 
fore  the  robber  had  seen  him  but  once ;  and 
now  that  the  day  was  so  near  at  hand,  he  felt 
a  natural  desire  to  consult  him  more  fully 
upon  a  matter  affecting,  as  this  did,  his  life. 
But  the  day  appointed  for  his  trial  came  be 
fore  he  met  his  counsel  again,  and  then  it  was 
in  court. 

After  a  brief  conversation  with  him, 
the  jury  was  summoned,  and  Karl  Blasiu? 
was  put  upon  his  trial,  by  the  name  of  William 
Lancewood.  He  refused  of  course  to  answer 
to  this  name, declaring  that  it  was  not  his  right 
ful  one,  but  the  prosecuting  attorney  said  that 
he  expected  to  be  able  to  show  that  although 
the  prisoner  might  have  many  aliases,  this 
was  the  one  by  which  he  was  at  least  the  best 
known  among  his  companions,  though  the 
public  had  known  him  best  as  Madame  Duval, 
the  fortune-teller.  This  matter  being  dispos 
ed  of  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  court,  the  trial 
then  commenced  in  earnest. 

At  first,  evidence  was  adduced  showing  that 
the  prisoner  and  the  so-styled  Madame  Duval 
were  one  and  the  same,  and  to  prove  this,  it 
was  only  necessary  to  summon  the  policemen 
who  had  arrested  him.  Thus,  at  the  outset, 
the  robber's  case  received  an  almost  fatal  blow. 
He  found  by  the  reading,  that  he  was  charged 
with  murder,or  rather  an  attempt  to  commit  mur 
der,  but  where  this  was  to  be  applied  or  localiz- 
ed,he  could  not  conceive.  True,he  had  murder 
ed  Hardhead,  but  "dead  men  tell  no  lies," 
and  who  could  suspect  him  in  a  matter  where 
in  he  had  acted  so  openly,  and  which  he  had 
himself  laid  before  the  police  1 

Several  hours  were  occupied  in  points  of 
evidence,  when  at  last  a  first  witness  was 
summoned.  The  robber  could  not  see  his 
face  until  he  had  assumed  the  witness's  stand, 
and  had  sworn  the  usual  oath,  when  he  turned 
to  face  in  part,  the  jury,  the  two  counsel,  and 
the  prisoner.  As  he  did  so,  the  robber  rose 
to  his  feet,  in  amazement ;  he  could  not  be- 


278 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


lieve  his  eyes,  and  as  he  stood  there,  he  rub 
bed  them  again  and  again,  and  gazed  more 
intently,  when  he  seemed  to  sink  into  his  seat 
again,  as  though  perfect  despair  had  taken 
possession  of  his  soul,  and  his  head  dropped 
upon  his  breast,  as  if  he  had  become  lifeless  ! 
The  witness  who  was  thus  brought  to  con 
front  him  there,  was  Hardhead  ! 

No  wonder  that  the  robber  felt  himself  so 
thoroughly  lost.  He  realized,  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  wonder  at  seeing  his  supposed 
victim  alive,  how  thoroughly  Hardhead  knew 
him  and  his  guilty  habits.  He  was  a  host  of 
evidence  within  himself,  for  he  had  witness 
ed  over  half  the  most  daring  burglaries 
which  he  had  committed  in  London,  besides 
showing  in  his  own  person  sufficient  to  con 
demn  the  prisoner,  in  relation  to  his  attempt 
upon  the  witness's  life.  The  fact  was,  Hard 
head  had  turned  state's  evidence  against  Karl 
Blasius,  in  revenge  for  that  fearful  night's 
work. 

The  evidence  elicited  from  Hardhead,  was 
of  the  clearest  and  most  satisfactory  charac 
ter.  He  told  a  plain  and  straight-forward 
story,  for  he  fek  that  the  truth  was  bad  enough, 
and  that  he  could  scarcely  render  it  darker  by 
falsehood.  He  related  the  life  of  the  robber 
from  the  period  when  our  story  opens,  up  to 
the  very  day  of  his  arrest,  but  more  he  did  not 
know,  save  that  he  had  heard  the  prisoner  tell 
of  some  daring  piratical  scenes  in  the  Spanish 
Indies,  in  which,  according  to  his  own  admis 
sion,  he  had  participated.  The  jury  listened 
attentively,  and  appeared  to  believe  all  that 
Hardhead  uttered. 

Being  called  upon  to  explain  the  fact  of  his 
not  losing  his  life  at  the  time  that  he  was  sup 
posed  to  be  dead,  he  showed  that  he  had 
scarcely  been  brought  to  the  dead  house  be 
fore  the  air  and  motion  that  he  had  encounter 
ed,  revived  him  so  that  he  could  make  a  mo 
tion,  and  this  being  observed,  a  surgeon  was 
sent  for  directly,  and  proper  means  being 
adopted  an^  vigorously  applied,  he  was  in  a 
few  hours  quite  relieved  from  danger.  His 
suspicions  were  aroused,  and  he  divulged 
them  to  the  police,  who  at  once  procured  a  war 
rant  for  the  robber's  arrest. 

At  first,  it  could  not  exactly  be  discovered 
what  means  had  been  used  to  produce  the 
state  in  which  Hardhead  was  conveyed  to  the 
dead  house,  but  the  police  who  arrested  the 


robber,  noted  a  few  bits  of  charcoal  that 
appeared  to  have  fallen  upon,  and  burned  the 
chamber  floor,  and  also  discovered  the  small 
hand  furnace.  These  facts,  coupled  with  the 
observation  of  the  surgeon,  as  to  the  insensi 
bility  that  had  been  produced,  led  them  at 
least  to  believe  that  the  robber  had  placed 
charcoal  in  the  room  for  the  object  of  ridding 
himself  of  a  dangerous  witness. 

"  Had  you  any  words  with  the  prisoner  on 
that  night  before  retiring?"  asked  one  of  the 
jury  of  Hardhead. 

"  Yes,  we  had  a  dispute  about  some  money 
matters,  and  I  threatened  to  expose  him  if  he 
didn't  share  the  profits  he  had  made — for  I 
knowed  he  had  lots  of  gold  secreted  some 
where  in  the  place." 

The  jury  looked  significantly  at  each  other, 
as  they  seemed  to  sum  up  in  their  minds  the 
various  links  of  the  evidence  which  they  had 
heard.  Hardhead  was  dismissed  from  the 
stand,  and  the  defence  was  opened  by  the 
counsel  for  the  prisoner.  He  was  rather  a 
young  man,  but  had  obtained  considerable 
reputation  for  shrewdness  and  legal  cunning, 
and  Sir  Robert  had  secured  his  services  with 
the  promise  of  a  liberal  fee  of  a  thousand 
pounds  if  he  would  succeed  in  clearing  the 
prisoner,  for  he  wished  to  have  him  liberated, 
and  permitted  to  retire  to  his  own  country,  to 
repent  and  become  fit  for  death. 

This  was  an  unusually  large  fee,  and  tempt 
ed  the  cupidity  of  the  young  lawyer,  who, 
therefore,  resolved  if  possible,  to  prove  his 
client  innocent,  at  least  to  the  satisfaction  of 
the  jury,  and  being  himself  well  satisfied  of 
his  guilt  after  a  few  moments'  conversation 
with  him,  he  found,  that  let  the  evidence  be 
what  it  might,  his  reliance  must  not  be  in  any 
assistance  the  robber  could  afford  him  in 
strengthening  his  case,  but  that  he  must  rely 
solely  upon  his  own  inventive  powers,  and  the 
application  of  the  shrewd  points  and  bear 
ings  of  his  profession. 

The  charges  preferred  by  the  prosecuting 
attorney  seemed  to  be  fully  substantiated,  all 
save  the  attempt  upon  Hardhead's  life,  which 
was  the  main  thing  upon  which  the  action 
was  brought,  and  that  was  strongly  sustained 
by  a  chafc  of  circumstances.  There  was  the 
testimony  of  the  physician,  as  to  the  effect 
produced  upon  Hardhead,  which  he  unhesi 
tatingly  pronounced  to  be  most  likely  to  have 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


been  caused  by  the  gas  of  burning  charcoal, 
and  then,  to  corroborate  this  idea,  there  were 
the  bits  of  charcoal  found  upon  the  floor,  and 
the  furnace  also  in  which  the  coals  might 
have  been  ignited. 

This  chain  of  evidence,  and  the  fact  of  the 
dispute  that  had  passed  between  the  prisoner 
and  Hardhead,  were  forcibly  dwelt  upon  by 
the  prosecuting  attorney.  He  labored  to  show 
the  former  character  of  the  prisoner  in  its 
most  odious  light,  called  the  attention  of  the 
jury  to  the  fact  of  his  having  played  upon  the 
credulity  of  the  public  for  so  long  a  period,  un 
der  the  name  of  Duval,  pretending  to  afford 
information  of  a  superhuman  character,  and 
in  short,  did  not  seem  to  let  any  chance  for 
sarcasm  or  bitterness  escape  him,  but  poured 
out  his  accumulated  charges  and  anathemas 
upon  the  prisoner's  head,  with  excited  earnest 
ness. 

Not  so  with  the  robber's  counsel ;  he  was 
cool  and  collected.  ,  He  had  allowed  the  prose 
cution  to  go  on  to  every  extreme  that  was 
attempted,  and  had  not  once  used  his  preroga 
tive  to  check  them  where  he  thought  them  to 

o 

be  exceeding  the  spirit  of  the  law,  and  thus 
permitted  to  go  on,  the  prosecuting  attorney 
had  more  than  once,  though  a  most  able  man, 
made  points  that  might  have  been  easily  de 
clared  inadmissible  as  evidence  against  the 
prisoner,  had  his  counsel  challenged  them  be 
fore  the  court ;  but  this  was  not  the  case,  and 
the  prosecution  went  through  its  entire  course, 
unchecked  and  undisputed. 

The  jury  even  thought  that  the  prisoner  did 
not  have  a  fair  chance  for  his  life  through  his 
counsel,  and  thus  a  half  defined  sympathy 
was  aroused  in  their  breasts  in  his  behalf. 
They  began  to  wonder  what  he  could  say, 
after  letting  so  much  go  against  his  client. 
Though  he  was  now  fully  possessed  of  the 
government  plan  and  manner  of  charging  his 
client,  they  could  know  nothing  of  his  mode 
of  defence,  and  therefore  could  take  no  fair 
means  to  defeat  or  disprove  the  validity  of 
what  he  might  say.  This  state  of  things 
created  no  small  interest  among  the  jury, 
judges,  and  counsel,  when,  at  this  moment, 
the  prisoner's  counsel  rose  to  speak. 

He  was,  as  we  have  before  remarked,  a 
young  man,  but  he  had  studied  the  art  of  pro 
ducing  effect  upon  a  jury — one  of  the  greatest 
secrets  of  his  profession.  He  had  rejoiced 


within  himself  at  the  excited  and  passionate 
spirit  of  the  prosecution  ;  he  had  not  regretted 
the  illegal  points  that  had  been  made,  for 
all  these  were  a  mine  of  strength  in  the 
defence,  and  by  his  rigid  contrast  to  the  heat 
ed  manner  of  the  prosecution,  he  would  be 
able  to  produce  a  far  more  decided  effect  than 
he  could  have  done  had  the  trial  on  their  part 
been  conducted  with  calmness. 

He  rose  with  a  quiet,  calm  self-possession, 
that  said  upon  the  face  of  it,  as  a  confident 
smile  lighted  up  his  features,  that  he  consid 
ered  all  that  had  been  said  and  done  as  weigh 
ing  not  one  farthing  against  the  case.  He 
bowed  respectfully  to  the  court,  the  jury,  and 
the  crowd  of  his  professional  brethren  that 
thronged  the  court-room,  at  this  interesting 
moment. 

With  the  most  deliberate  intonations  of 
voice  and  the  most  distinct  articulation,  he 
commenced  by  saying  boldly,  with  his  clear, 
handsome  eye  fixed  upon  the  jury,  that  not 
one  item  of  evidence  had  yet  been  adduced 
to  prove  the  guilt  of  his  client.  He  told  the 
jury  that  he  would  not  trespass  so  much  upon 
their  patience  as  to  take  up  the  extraordinary 
points  made  by  the  prosecution,  and  attempt 
ing  to  disprove  them,  one  by  one,  he  would 
annul  them  altogether.  He  called  upon  the 
jury  to  mark  the  character  of  the  hardened 
villain  who  had  been  brought  there  to  swear 
away  another's  life,  and  the  prosecution  had 
even  taken  the  pains  to  show  that  he  did  so 
after  a  personal  quarrel  with  ihe  prisoner! 

He .  referred  the  jury,  one  by  one,  to  the 
illegal  points  made  by  the  government,  and 
showed  them  so  plainly,  and  showered  them 
down  upon  the  prosecuting  attorney's  head  in 
such  profusion,  that  he  writhed  under  the  in 
fliction.  He  said  that  he  had  not  come  there 
to  couch  a  lance  against  any  one,  nor  to  lose 
his  temper  in  arguing  his  cause  :  his  case  did 
not  require  any  vehemence  to  propagate  it, 
but  he  would  call  the  attention  of  the  court 
and  the  jury  to  a  few  remarks  which  he  de 
sired  to  make,  and  which  he  should  substan 
tiate  by  competent  witnesses. 

He  then  commenced  a  clear,  calm,  but 
powerful  argument  against  circumstantial  evi 
dence  ;  he  even  startled  the  jury  by  the  num 
ber  and  thrilling  character  of  the  incidents 
he  related,  from  undoubted  authority,  show 
ing  how  many  innocent  persons  had  been  ex- 


280 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE -TIME. 


ecu  ted  upon  the  strength  of  this  species  of 
evidence.  He  drew  pictures,  related  cases, 
and  stated  facts,  in  such  an  array  and  strength, 
as  to  astonish  the  older  members  of  the  pro 
fession  about  him.  The  court-room  was 
all  the  while  as  still  as  death.  The  jury 
looked  at  each  other  in  amazement,  and  their 
faces  evinced  as  much  hesitation  now,  as  it 
regarded  the  case  before  them,  as  they  had 
done  of  confidence  during  the  remarks  of 
the  prosecuting  attorney.  The  keen  sighted 
young  lawyer  saw,  and  improved  this  advan 
tage  ;  he  was  not  addressing  himself  solely 
to  a  panel  of  jurors,  but  he  was  working 
upon  their  convictions — he  was  moulding  their 
belief  and  fancy  to  serve  his  own  purpose.  As 
he  saw  them  gradually  receive  and  credit  his 
remarks,  he  grew  more  decided,  until  he  had 
brought  them,  step  by  step,  to  the  point  where 
they  were  ready  to  receive  assertion  for  argu 
ment,  and  then  he  changed  his  tactics. 

Now  he  launched  forth  on  another  branch 
of  evidence.  He  told  the  jury  that  he  should 
not  attempt  to  refute  in  detail  what  he  could 
annul  altogether,  and  he  boldly  declared  that 
he  could  prove  Hardhead  to  have  fallen  down 
in  the  street  in  a  tit  on  that  night  on  which 
the  indictment  charged  the  prisoner  with  hav 
ing  attempted  to  kill  him,  and  he  called  four 
persons  to  swear  to  this,  who  declared  that  at 
a  certain  hour,  which  each  one  fixed  by  some 
attending  circumstance,  they  had  seen  Hard 
head  lying  in  the  street,  as  though  he  were 
dead,  but  by  the  copious  use  of  water  and 
external  friction,  he  was  revived  sufficiently 
to  go  on  his  way,  unaided. 

This  was  the  only  evidence  that  he  wished 
to  introduce;  his  client 'was  brought  there  to 
be  tried  upon  an  indictment  relating  to  an  at 
tempt  to  murder ;  no  other  charge  had  been 
legally  brought  against  him,  though  the  prose 
cution,  feeling  the  weakness  of  the  case,  had 
gone  back  and  attempted  to  show  the  prisoner 
to  have  been  a  villain  almost  from  his  cradle. 
But  what  had  this  to  do  with  the  indictment? 
That  was  all  he  desired  to  refute — a  charge 
that  was  legally  brought :  neither  the  court 
nor  the  jury  had  aught  to  do  with  any  other 
consideration ;  this  their  honors  upon  the 
bench  would  sustain  him  in  most  fully. 

He  then  wanted  to  know,  when  it  was  clear 
ly  proved  that  the  man  known  as  Hardhead 
had  been  seen  in  a  fit  the  evening  before  the 


day  when  he  had  been  conveyed  to  the  dead 
house,  who  was  prepared  to  say  that  his  sec 
ond  fit,  from  which  he  had  recovered  as 
described,  was  not  produced  by  the  same  cause 
as  the  one  that  had  occurred  in  the  street  ? 
Was  it  likely  that  a  man  guilty  of  his  sup 
posed  murder,  would  have  gone,  as  the  pris 
oner  did,  at  the  moment  of  his  discovering  it, 
and  declare  the  fact  of  his  death  to  the 
proper  authorities  ?  He  left  this  question  for 
the  jury  to  settle  in  their  own  minds;  he 
should  draw  no  inference  for  them — the  case 
was  too  clear  for  a  doubt. 

The  calm  air  of  confidence,  so  different 
from  the  heated  manner  of  the  attorney  for 
the  prosecution,  had  great  weight  with  the 
jury — they  were  half  inclined  in  his  favor  be 
fore  he  had  spoken  five  minutes.  The  judge 
even  seemed  to  waver  when  he  summed  up 
the  evidence,  and  charged  the  jury — he  could 
not  overrule  any  point  made  by  the  prisoner's 
counsel.  He  had  been  wary  and  cautious  in 
all  he  had  asserted,  and  all  he  had  done,  and 
finally  the  jury  retired  for  the  consideration 
of  the  guilt  or  innocence  of  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar. 

In  the  meantime,  Karl  Blasius  had  sat  with 
watchful  eagerness,  carefully  drinking  in  every 
word  that  his  counsel  uttered.  When  he  had 
heard  of  the  manner  of  Hardhead's  revival, 
he  no  longer  wondered  at  seeing  him  there, 
but  the  plea  that  was  put  in,  proving  a  fit 
as  having  occurred  to  Hardhead  before  he  saw 
him  on  that  eventful  night,  was  new  to  him  ! 
He  studied  the  expressive  countenances  of  the 
jury,  as  they  listened  to  the  eloquent  and 
convincing  remarks  of  his  counsel,  and  when 
they  had  retired  to  consult  upon  the  verdict, 
he  fell  to  musing  on  all  this  singular  business, 
and  realized  after  all,  how  little  real  justice 
there  is  in  law,  since  a  feather's  weight 
may  turn  the  scale  either  way,  and  innocence 
suffer,  or  transgression  go  unscourged.  Nor 
was  he  far  from  correct  in  his  inference. 

But  the  jury  were  soon  in  their  seats  again, 
and  through  the  foreman,  ready  to  declare 
their  verdict.  The  usual  form  was  observed. 
The  judfre  called  upon  them  for  their  answer 
to  the  gfct  or  innocence  of  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar,  when  the  foreman  replied  in  a  clear,  dis 
tinct  voice : 

"  NOT  GUILTY  !" 


CHAPTER    LI. 


THE     RETRIBUTION. 

Take  my  esteem,  if  you  on  that  can  live  ; 
But  frankly,  sir,  'tis  all  I  have  to  give. 


DRYDEN. 


THE  country  seat  of  Sir  Charles  Marlow 
was  a  rich  specimen  of  the  style  in  which  the 
English  gentry  formerly  lived.  Its  yards 
were  spacious,  its  parks  and  preserves  ample 
and  thrifty,  and  the  old  trees  about  the  an 
cestral  mansion  itself,  looked  like  huge  giants 
set  to  guard  the  Marlow  domain.  The  present 
representative  of  the  family,  who  has  already 
appeared  upon  these  pages  in  so  unfavorable  a 
light,  was  hardly  worthy  to  sustain  the  reputa 
tion  of  so  goodly  a  stock  as  he  had  sprung 
from.  He  was  an  imperious,  self-willed  man, 
and  though  his  table  never  lacked  plenty  of 
jovial  attendants  from  the  country  round,  yet 
they  came  more  for  the  good  things  the  table 
bore  and  for  the  pleasure  of  meeting  each  other, 
than  for  the  sake  of  the  host  himself. 

To-day  was  devoted  to  a  fox  hunt,  to-mor 
row,  perhaps  to  a  race,  and  the  next,  maybe, 
to  gambling  in  some  way.  The  cold,  selfish 
master  of  the  domain,  made  every  one  subser 
vient  to  his  will,  and  lived  in  all  things  as 
though  life  was  created  alone  for  him,  and  as 
if  all  those  persons  who  breathed  the  air  in 
common  with  him,  were  intended  to  adminis 
ter  to  his  pleasure. 

At  the  age  of  forty-five,  Sir  Charles  by 
accident  met  with  a  young  and  beautiful  girl, 
not  far  from  his  own  home.  Her  parents 
were  poor,  but  respectable,  and  she  being  an 


only  child,  had  shared  all  the  advantages  for 
improvement  that  were  possibly  to  be  obtained 
through  the  limited  means  and  humble  influ 
ence  of  her  father.  Fanny  Hardway's  beauty 
was  of  just  that  blooming,  yet  retiring  char 
acter,  that  would  attract  such  a  man  as  Sir 
Charles  Marlow.  He  saw  and  loved  her  at 
once.  The  cunning  baronet  was  already  too 
well  experienced  in  those  matters  to  be  hasty 
or  indiscreet.  He  in  the  first  place,  secured 
the  good  will  and  approbation  of  her  parents 
by  a  few  well-bestowed  favors ;  but  Fanny 
herself,  he  saw  was  not  to  be  so  easily  won, 
even  by  a  baronet. 

The  truth  was,  the  humble  girl  had  a  lover 
already  among  her  own  class,  one  with  whom 
she  had  already  exchanged  promises  of  love 
and  constancy,  though  this  was  unknown  to 
her  parents.  Sir  Charles's  constant  visits 
seemed  to  delight  the  simple  father  and  moth 
er  of  Fanny,  while  they  greatly  distressed  the 
young  girl.  He  daily  grew  more  familiar,  but 
she  could  onlyextendto  him  a  careful  and  studi 
ed  politeness,  for  she  did  not  dare  to  thwart  his 
advances  boldly.  She  was  young,  not  yet 
twenty,  her  father  was  ill,  their  means  were 
daily  becoming  exhausted,  and  Fanny  saw 
that  she  was  expected  by  her  parents  to  sacri 
fice  herself  in  order  to  give  them  bread.  She 
looked  upon  the  bent  form  of  her  father,  who 


282 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


had  never  denied  her  anything  in  his  life,  and 
upon  the  anxious  face  of  a  mother,  the  larger 
portion  of  whose  life  had  been  expended  in 
caring  for  and  bringing  her  up,  and  she  said  : 
"  It  is  but  one  little  struggle  and  all  is  over, 
and  by  the  sacrifice  I  shall  gajn  comfort  and 
plenty  to  their  future  share.  How  can  I  hesi 
tate  even  for  a  moment  to  decide  in  my  own 
mind,  when  I  see  that  their  happiness  depends 
upon  my  marrying  Sir  Charles  ?" 

But  her  heart  beat  heavily,  and  the  deep 
sighs  that  escaped  her  incontinently  now 
and  then,  came  from  the  very  depths  of  her 
young  breast.  Edward  Manley  knew  very 
well  the  course  of  reasoning  that  had  brought 
Fanny  to  consent  in  her  own  mind  to  the  at 
tentions  of  the  rich  baronet,  and  miserable  as 
this  made  him,  still  he  could  not  but  admire  her 
the  more  for  the  self-sacrificing  willingness 
with  which  she  yielded  all  to  her  parents,  and 
sold  her  own  happiness  even,  to  buy  them 
bread.  Bitter,  ah !  how  bitter  was  their  meet 
ing  one  night  alone,  and  unseen  by  any  other 
human  eye.  Fanny's  grief  was  resolved  to 
show  itself  once,  and  she  wept  like  a  child, 
while  Edward  told  her,  after  all  else,  that  at 
least  she  had  the  sweet  assurance  of  affording 
her  parents  protection  and  support  for  life. — 
He  was  himself  as  poor  as  Fanny,  therefore 
he  could  not  bring  to  her  or  them  any  ex 
change  for  her  hand,  except  the  warm  and 
honest  heart,  a  gift  richer  than  the  glittering 
pile  Sir  Charles  promised  them. 

"I  may  love  you  still  ?"  whispered  Edward 
Manley,  entreatingly. 

"  Nay,  Edward,  it  would  be  wicked  to  love 
the  wife  of  another." 

"  And  I  must  see  thee  thus  borne  away  by 
this  baronet  for  want  of  the  means  to  support 
purselves  and  parents.  Alas!  that  fortune 
should  have  dealt  so  hardly  with  us." 

And  so  indeed  it  was  ;  there  was  no  other 
way  for  Fanny  to  do,  provided  she  counted 
her  parents'  wants  and  comforts  as  weighing 
aught  in  the  scale,  and  as  Sir  Charles  renew 
ed,  each  time  he  came  to  the  cottage,  his  warm 
assurance  of  love  and  devotion,  Fanny  had  at 
last  learned  to  receive  them  with  downcast 
eyes  and  silent  acquiescence,  at  least  as  far  as 
appearances  were  concerned. 

The  baronet  really  loved  her ;  when  he  had 
carried  away  Emma,  and  by  deceit  made  her 
Mrs.  Marlow,  he  had  been  tempted  by  his 


passions,  not  his  love.  Now  his  heart,  or  at 
least  what  heart  he  had  left,  was  touched,  and 
as  the  proper  period  transpired  before  the  pro 
posed  union  should  take  place,  the  cold,  sel 
fish  man  felt  the  chastening  influence  upon 
his  heart  of  the  love  that  actuated  it.  It 
changed  in  no  small  degree  his  habits  and 
feelings,  and  those  about  him  were  surprised 
at  witnessing  deeds  of  liberal  charity  and  un 
usual  kindness.  The  truth  was,  that  so  po 
tent  is  love,  it  will  purify  and  bleach  even  the 
hardest  heart. 

In  the  meantime  the  wedding-day  was  ap 
pointed,  and  arrangements  were  made  to  give 
the  neighboring  country  folks  a  liberal  and  jo 
vial  entertainment  on  the  occasion  of  Sir 
Charles's  union  with  one  of  their  own  class. 

Edward  Manley  could  remain  in  the  vicini 
ty  of  Fanny  no  longer,  now  that  the  day  was 
affixed  which  was  to  make  her  Sir  Charles's 
wife.  He  therefore  bade  her  a  tender  fare 
well,  and  left  his  native  place  to  seek  for  em 
ployment  elsewhere. 

Already  had  Sir  Charles  offered  to  purchase 
the  cottage  and  lands,  for  which  Fanny's  fa 
ther  was  obliged  to  pay  so  much  rent  as  to 
keep  him  constantly  embarrassed,  and  to  pre 
sent  it  to  them,  but  the  father  refused  all  such 
assistance  now.  He  said  that  when  Sir 
Charles  became  his  son-in-law,  if  he  chose  to 
lend  him  an  aiding  hand,  it  was  all  very  well, 
and  would  be  very  acceptable,  but  it  looked, 
he  said,  too  much  like  selling  his  child,  to  re 
ceive  such  a  favor  before  he  parted  with  her. 
However,  Mark  Hardway  awoke  one  morning 
and  found  upon  his  table  that  the  cottage  and 
land,  with  all  right  and  title,  had  been  trans- 
fered  to  his  name,  and  the  papers  making  the 
whole  property  his  own  were  in  his  hand. — 
No  donor  appeared,  or  was  named.  Of  course, 
he  presumed  it  came  from  Sir  Charles,  but  he 
knew  not,  and  this  being  the  case,  the  family 
found  themselves  on  a  happy  and  comfortable 
pecuniary  footing. 

Fanny  grew  pale  and  thin,  and  her  mother 
felt  that  her  daughter  was  far  from  being 
happy. 

Thfi  day  approached  when  the  victim  was 
to  be  %crificed,  and  finally,  Fanny  having,  in 
accordance  with  what  she  deemed  to  be 
her  duty,  consented  to  give  her  hand  to  Sir 
Charles  Marlow,  the  village  church  was  pre 
pared  for  the  ceremony.  The  little  altar  was 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


283 


dressed  with  fragrant  flowers,  and  the  sexton 
was  seen  all  day  running  and  bustling  about, 
full  of  importance  and  business.  Every  niche 
and  corner  was  decorated  again  and  again,  and 
there  was  no  portion  of  duty  that  was  not 
done  twice  over  in  his  anxiety  to  do  the  best 
he  could. 

Little  boys  'and  girls  lingered  about  the 
church  door  as  the  hour  fof  the  ceremony  ap 
proached,  and  Cato,  as  he  was  called — a  poor 
half-witted  being,  who  came  from  no  one  knew 
where,  but  who  had  been  cared  for  by  the 
villagers  these  fifteen  years — leaned  against 
the  door  and  watched  with  a  half-foolish,  half- 
thoughtful  eye,  the  proceedings  of  those  who 
prepared  the  church.  Some  folks  thought 
him  without  any  wits  at  all,  but  those  who 
were  kind  to  him,  and  Fanny  was  among  that 
number,  knew  better. 

This  weak  minded  boy — he  was  scarcely 
more  than  a  boy — seemed  unusually  troubled 
and  uneasy  as  the  hour  approached  for  the 
wedding.  He  walked  quickly  backward  and 
forward  like  a  dumb  animal  that  seeks  to  find 
some  relief  from  a  pressing  annoyance.  Four 
fifths  of  the  villagers  who  had  canvassed  the 
proposed  connection  in  the  usual  gossipping 
style,  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Fanny 
was  very  glad  indeed,  and  very  much  to  be 
envied  that  she  should  be  able  to  make  a  match 
so  much  above  her  own  sphere.  The  other 
portion  said  it  was  an  ill  assorted  match,  but 
probably  a  love  one. 

Strange  that  out  of  them  all,  this  poor  fool, 
as  he  was  called,  should  have  best  read  the 
young  girl's  heart.  He  sighed,  ay,  and  now 
the  hour  had  nearly  come,  he  cried  too  ! — 
Fanny  had  always  been  his  friend,  she  gave 
him  food  and  clothes,  but  more  than  all,  she 
was  kind  and  gentle  to  him,  and  he  loved  her 
— 0,  how  much  the  poor  half-witted  creature 
loved  that  kind-hearted  girl.  In  spite  of  all 
his  simplicity,  he  knew  that  she  was  unhappy, 
though  Fanny  breathed  no  word  of  complaint 
to  any  one;  itwasnot  her  way  to  do  so.  Ed 
ward  only  knew  her  heart ;  her  parents  could 
only  see  the  picture  that  their  fancy  drew  of  a 
comfortable  and  even  splendid  home  for  their 
child,  and  a  happy  setout  for  life. 

Poor  Cato  knew  that  although  Fanny  was 
going  to  a  proud,  rich  mansion,  that  her  heart 
went  not  with  her,  and  as  he  walked  back  and 
forth  by  the  door  of  the  village  church,  now 


and  then  a  strange  dark  feeling  came  over 
him,  as  though  he  would  like  to  leap  upon  Sir 
Charles  Marlow,  and,  clutching  his  throat,  kill 
him  !  Such  thoughts  as  these  filled  the  poor 
creature's  breast  as  the  marriage  corteg'e  ap 
proached. 

They  were  all  there  ;  the  proud  baronet  and 
his  village  bride,  the  curate,  the  parents,  the 
friends — strangely  mingled  from  the  gentry 
and  the  humble  peasantry — altogether  filed  in 
by  the  poor  half-witted  boy,  until  as  the  last 
one  brought  up  the  rear,  he  stole  in  also,  and 
posted  himself  in  a  corner  where  he  could  see 
and  hear  all  that  was  done  in  the  little  church. 

The  ceremony  was  performed  with  all  the 
details  to  that  part  where  the  curate  asks  the 
usual  questions  ;  that  relating  to  the  bans  is 
repeated  three  times.  It  had  already  been 
distinctly  uttered  twice,  when  the  clatter  of 
horses'  feet  rang  over  the  road,  and  the  peo 
ple  in  the  little  church  were  startled  by  the 
noise  of  one  rushing  up  the  aisle,  and  in  the 
next  moment  a  voice  cried  aloud  : 

"  I  forbid  the  bans !" 

In  order  to  render  our  story  plainer,  we  turn 
with  the  reader  now  and  follow  Edward  Man- 
ley,  who  had  been  driven  to  leave  his  child 
hood's  home  by  the  unhappy  force  of  the  cir 
cumstances  referred  to.  He  could  not  bear  to 
stay  and  see  the  choice  of  his  heart  become 
the  wife  of  another ;  indeed  he  felt  that  it  was 
best  for  them  both  that  he  should  not  do  so. — 
He  was  humble  in  means,  and  must  be  indus 
trious  even  to  enable  him  to  procure  the  ne 
cessities  of  life,  and  he  hoped,  too,  by  assidu 
ous  application  to  drive  away  in  part  the  bit 
ter  reflections  that  now  flooded  his  heart. 

Edward  Manley,  in  his  wanderings  in 
search  of  employment,  came  at  last  to  Hare- 
dale,  where  he  engaged  with  Sir  Robert 
Brompton,  whom  he  chanced  to  meet,  to  at 
tend  to  the  garden  and  grounds  generally  of 
the  cottage. 

"  You  will  pay  all  regard  to  the  wants  of  the 
house.  I  am  frequently  in  town  myself  for 
some  days  at  a  time." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Do  as  well  as  you  can,  and  be  industrious, 
and  I  doubt  not  I  shall  like  you  well,"  said  Sir 
Robert,  encouragingly. 

"  I  will  try,  sir." 

"  Mrs.  Marlow  will—'' 


284 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  Who,  sir  ?"  asked  the  new  gardener,  with 
a  startled  energy. 

"  Who  ?  Why,  I  was  about  to  speak  of 
the  housekeeper,"  he  replied ;  "  is  there  any 
thing  remarkable  in  that  to  surprise  you?" 

"  No,  sir,  but  you  called  her  name,  sir  ?"  sug 
gested  Edward,  respectfully. 

"  I  did— Mrs.  Marlow." 

"  Any  relation  to  Sir  Charles  Marlow,  in 
the  east  county,  sir  ?"  asked  Edward,  with  evi 
dent  interest  depicted  in  his  face. 

"I  know  not ;  and  yet  Marlow  is  not  a  com 
mon  name."  "It  is  a  little  queer,"  thought 
Sir  Robert,  to  himself,  "  that  I  never  thought 
to  ask  Mrs.  Marlow  about  her  birth — I  will 
do  so  sometime." 

At  this  moment,  Clara  approached  them 
where  they  stood  together  in  the  garden,  when 
Sir  Robert  turned  carelessly,  to  satisfy  the  cu 
riosity  that  had  sprung  up  in  his  own  breast, 
and  asked  her : 

"  Is  Mrs.  Marlow  any  relation  of  the  Mar- 
low  family  of  east  county,  Clara  ?" 

Clara  was  startled  by  this  question,  which 
she  feared  involved  the  disclosure  of  Mrs. 
Marlow's  confidence  to  her,  and  yet  she  did 
not  know  that  what  she  had  told  her  was  con 
sidered  a  secret  exactly,  for  at  the  time  of  its 
occurrence  years  before,  it  must  have  been 
generally  known.  She  therefore  answered 
Sir  Robert  that  there  was  a  very  peculiar  re 
lationship  existing  between  her  and  Sir  Charles 
Marlow,  which  she  could  explain  to  him  if  he 
desired.  Saying  which  Sir  Robert  turned 
from  Edward  Manley,  and  drawing  Clara's  arm 
within  his  own,  strolled  away  down  one  of  the 
paths  to  hear  what  she  had  to  communicate 
relative  to  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Marlow's  rela 
tionship  to  Sir  Charles  Marlow. 

But  Edward  Manley  had  heard  enough  to 
excite  his  curiosity ;  he  remembered  when  a 
boy  to  have  heard  of  some  illegal  transaction 
between  Sir  Charles  and  a  young  girl  whom 
he  married,  or  was  said  to  have  run  away 
with,  but  who  afterwards  ran  away  from  him, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  something  whispering 
at  his  heart  that  all  this  concerned  himself  in 
some  way.  He  felt  as  though  he  ought  to 
understand  the  matter  at  any  rate,  and  when 
Sir  Robert  returned,  after  hearing  Clara's  story 
of  the  housekeeper,  he  resolved  to  ask  him 
not  to  consider  him  impertinent  if  he  should 
inquire  more  fully  as  to  what  relationship 


Mrs.  Marlow  was  to  Sir  Charles.     And  as  Sir 
Robert  came  up,  he  did  so. 

"  Why  do  you  feel  so  much  curiosity  about 
the  matter,  young  man  ?"  asked  Sir  Robert, 
interested  in  the  feelings  he  observed  the  new 
gardener  to  possess,  more  particularly  since  the 
story  which  had  just  heard  from  Clara. 

After  a  few  moments'  hesitation,  young 
Manley  seemed  to  take  courage,  and  resolved 
to  tell  his  story  to  Sir  Robert,  in  whom  he 
thought  he  discovered  one  who  would  befriend 
him  as  far  as  it  was  possible.  He  therefore 
told  him  what  had  driven  him  from  his  native 
place  to  seek  employment  elsewhere  ;  he  told 
him  of  his  love  for  Fanny  Hardway,  and  that 
Sir  Charles  Marlow  was  the  successful  rival 
who  was  that  very  day  to  bear  Fanny  a  bride 
to  his  proud  mansion. 

"  Does  she  love  him  ?"  asked  Sir  Robert, 
hastily,  "  or  is  your  regard  mutual  ?" 

"  Ah !  sir,  we  have  been  pledged  to  each 
other  for  years,"  replied  Edward  Manley. 

"  And  she  marries  him,  as  you  say,  from  a 
sense  of  duty  in  her  parents'  behalf?" 

"  That  is  the  only  consideration  that  influ 
ences  her  to  marry  Sir  Charles." 

"  Then  the  marriage  shall  not  take  place," 
said  Sir  Robert,  confidently. 

"  It  is  too  late  to  prevent  it  now,  sir.  They 
are  a  dozen  leagues  from  here,  and  this  after 
noon  is  fixed  upon  for  the  wedding." 

Sir  Robert's  mind  seemed  to  be  made  up  in 
one  instant,  and  he  resolved  to  befriend  the 
young  couple  at  all  hazards. 

"  Look  you,  my  fine  fellow,  you  best  know 
whether  you  have  told  me  the  truth  about 
the  matter,  or  not — if  you  have  done  so,  I 
will  be  your  friend  ;  in  the  stable  back  of  the 
cottage,  there  is  a  large  gray  horse — he  is 
strong,  well  trained,  and  fleet ;  saddle  him,  and 
if  you  do  not  reach  Sir  Charles  Marlow  be 
fore  the  ceremony  be  performed,  it  will  be 
your  own  fault.  At  the  proper  moment,  for 
bid  the  bans — say  that  you  require  but  a  few 
hours  to  give  legal  reasons  why  the  marriage 
should  not  take  place.  Say  no  more  than  this, 
and  I  will  be  there  to-morrow  with  evidence 
that^ill  sustain  you,  but  which  it  will  proba 
bly  be  unnecessary  to  adduce.  Do  you  under 
stand  me  fully  ?" 

"  Perfectly,  sir ;  I  know  well  enough  what 
to  do,  but  I  know  not  what  to  fay  to  you  who 
have  thus  befriended  me." 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


285 


"  Hasten — there  is  no  time  to  be  lost. 
Here,  take  this  purse,  saddle  the  gray  horse, 
and  be  gone  at  once." 

Edward  Manley  required  no  mpre  urging, 
but  with  a  muttered  acknowledgment  that  only 
served  to  show  how  thankful  he  was,  without 
giving  articulation  to  any  distinct  utterance, 
he  sought  the  stable,  and  was  mounted  and 
upon  the  road  so  quickly  as  to  give  promise 
to  Sir  Robert  that  he  needed  no  urging  to 
prompt  him.  A  cloud  of  dust  followed  his 
horse's  heels,  and  soon  shut  him  out  from 
view  of  those  at  the  cottage. 

Sir  Robert  entered  the  library  of  his  coun 
try  house,  and  seating  himself,  as  he  reflected 
upon  this  queer  business,  he  could  not  but  feel 
surprised  at  the  chance  which  had  brought 
Edward  Manley  to  him,  and  at  such  an  op 
portune  moment,  He  knew  the  family  of 
Marlow  by  reputation,  but  the  idea  ha  d  never 
entered  his  head  to  inquire  before  that  day 
as  to  his  housekeeper's  story.  Having  resolv 
ed  to  assist  young  Manley  in  relation  to  his 
love  for  Fanny  Hardway,  he  now  perfected 
his  plan.  In  the  first  place,  he  drew  up  a 
brief  paper  for  Mrs.  Marlow  to  sign,  testifying 
to  the  truth  of  her  having  been  married  to 
Sir  Charles  Marlow,  and  this  she  readily  did, 
more  particularly  when  she  understood  the 
object  of  the  paper  which  Sir  Robert  explain 
ed  to  her. 

"  There  is  to  be  a  singular  finale  to  this 
story,  between  Sir  Charles  Marlow  and  your 
self,"  said  Sir  Robert. 

"  So  far  as  I  can  be  the  means  of  prevent 
ing  another's  unhappiness,  I  am  very  glad," 
said  the  kind-hearted  Mrs.  Marlow;  "but  I 
have  long  since  forgiven  Sir  Charles  in  my 


own  heart  for  the  wrong  he  would  have  done 
me  years  ago." 

"  Yours  is  a  good  heart,  Mrs.  Marlow,  and 
would  not  revenge  itself,  I  know ;  but  we  must 
not  see  these  young  people  I  have  befriended 
suffer  while  we  can  prevent  it.  It  may  be, 
and  indeed  is  most  likely,  that  I  shall  be  com 
pelled  only  to  show  this  paper  to  Sir  Charles 
himself,  without  in  any  other  way  making  its 
contents  known.  He  will  dread  exposure  and 
give  her  up." 

"  I  trust  it  may  be  thus,  for  both  his  sake 
and  mine,"  she  said,  quietly,  though  evidently 
with  much  feeling. 

"  Trust  to  my  discretion,  my  good  Mrs. 
Marlow,  and  I  will  do  all  for  the  best,"  an 
swered  Sir  Robert  Brompton. 

"  I  will,  sir — for  you  have  always  been  a 
true  friend  to  me,"  replied  Mrs.  Marlow,  with 
honest  meaning. 

"  If  I  have  been  kind  to  you,  I  have  been 
doubly  repaid  in  the  same  coin,"  answered 
Sir  Robert.  "  But  I  must  not  stop  to  talk 
now :  time  is  precious,  until  I  join  my  young 
friend,  Edward  Manley." 

Saying  which,  Sir  Robert  gathered  up  the 
important  paper  that  Mrs.  Marlow  had  just 
signed,  and  ordered  a  vehicle  at  once. 

Thus  reinforced,  Sir  Robert  repaired  at  once 
to  Fanny's  parents,  and  on  the  following  day, 
when  the  nature  of  the  evidence  which  Ed 
ward  Manley  brought  to  prevent  the  marriage 
of  Sir  Charles  was  made  known,  the  baron 
stayed  all  further  proceedings,  declaring  hum 
bly  that  it  was  a  just  retribution  upon  him  for 
the  part  he  had  played  so  many  years  before 
toward  Emma  Warden,  the  curate's  daugh 
ter. 


CHAPTER    LII. 


THE    SOLDIER. 


My  conscience  has  a  thousand  several  tongues, 

And  every  tongue  brings  in  a  several  tale, 

And  every  tale  condemns  me  for  a  villain. — SHAKSPEARE. 


FROM  the  moment  that  Edward  Manley 
leaping  from  his  horse,  dashed  into  the  little 
church,  and  declared  that  he  forbade  the  bans, 
also  that  he  required  but  a  few  hours  to  show 
why  Sir  Charles  could  not  legally  marry 
Fanny,  the  baron's  heart  sank  within  his 
breast.  Hi?  happy  expectations  for  many 
weeks  past,  had  changed  the  entire  current  of 
his  life ;  the  chase  had  no  longer  any  charms 
for  him,  the  race  course  had  lost  its  power  of 
attraction,  and  he  loathed  the  wine  cup.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  was  really  in  love. 
Like  most  men  of  his  class,  his  amours  had 
been  numerous,  but  never  before  were  the 
sympathies  of  his  breast  engaged.  In  fact,  it 
had  been  doubtful  until  now,  if  Sir  Charles 
had  any  heart  at  all — but  the  simple-minded, 
pure  village  maiden  had  won  his  love,  and 
conquered  all  his  pride. 

We  say  from  the  moment  that  Edward 
Manley  stayed  the  ceremony,  the  baron  be 
came  an  altered  man — he  seemed  to  have  a 
presentiment  that  Sir  Robert  had  full  power  to 
prevent  the  marriage,  and  he  scarcely  took  the 
trouble  to  inquire  the  character  of  the  evi 
dence  brought  against  him.  Had  not  his 
heart  been  interested,  he  might  have  even 
contested  the  case,  and  insisted  upon  the  con 
summation  of  his  wishes ;  but  the  very  affec 
tion  which  he  bore  for  Fanny  completely  un 
manned  him,  and  he  seemed  more  like  a  child 
than  like  the  proud  Sir  Charles  Mario w.  It 


is  a  long  road  that  has  no  back  turning,  says 
the  old  proverb :  Sir  Charles  had  been  to  the 
extreme  point  that  his  imperious  self-will  could 
indicate,  and  now  it  was  time  for  the  unbend 
ing  of  the  freely  bent  bow. 

What  a  relief  was  all  this  to  Fanny — she 
had  followed  a  conscientious  sense  of  duty  in 
what  she  had  done,  and  Providence  itself  had 
seemed  to  intervene,  as  with  Abraham  of  old, 
to  prevent  the  willing  sacrifice. 

"Why,  Edward,  how  was  it  possible  that 
you  should  have  become  acquainted  with  the 
good  Sir  Robert  Brompton  at  such  a  moment, 
the  only  man,  perhaps,  in  all  England  who 
could  have  helped  us,  and  that  too,  at  just  the 
right  moment  ?"  asked  Fanny,  with  her  eyes 
bent  tenderly  upon  him  by  her  side. 

"  I  know  ry>t,  Fanny ;  I  scarcely  compre 
hend  this  business  at  all.  It  seems  like  a  mir 
acle  to  me,  and  as  though  I  had  been  impelled 
to  do  what  I  have  done,  by  some  superior 
power." 

"  Sir  Robert  Brompton  has  been  here  this 
morning  talking  with  my  father." 

"Has  he?" 

'  Yes,  and  has  placed  in  his  hands  a  great 
of  money,"  said  Fanny,  with  suppressed 
pleasure. 

"  For  what  purpose,  Fanny  ?" 

"  He  said  it  was  for  our  start  in  life,"  said 
the  blushing  girl,  as  her  eyes  sought  the 
ground. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


287 


Sir  Robert,  in  his  generosity,  had  indeed 
thus  pecuniarily  befriended  the  young  couple, 
and  by  bestowing  that  which  to  him  was  a 
trifle,  he  richly  endowed  persons  of  such 
humble  requirements  as  those  who  would  ap 
propriate  this  hundred  pounds.  The  pleas 
ure  of  giving  was  rich  recompense  to  him. 

After  having  settled  the  affairs  of  Fanny 
and  her  lover,  so  far  as  to  leave  them  with  the 
most  happy  prospects  in  view,  Sir  Robert  re 
solved  to  call  personally  upon  Sir  Charles 
Marlow,  partly  to  explain  to  him  the  part  that 
he  had  performed  in  this  peculiar  business,  and 
also  to  refer  to  Mrs.  Marlow  and  to  take  from 
Sir  Charles  a  written  discharge  as  to  his  right 
to  her  hand.  This  Sir  Robert  determined  to 
do,  not  with  any  distinct  object  in  view,  but 
rather  as  an  act  of  justice  to  one  who  had 
served  him  so  long  and  faithfully.  In  pursu 
ance  of  this  object,  he  called  at  Marlow 
House,  and  after  due  ceremony  was  ushered 
into  the  presence  of  its  master,  who  received 
him  courteously. 

Sir  Robert  frankly  explained  the  matters  re 
ferred  to,  as  he  had  designed  to  do — and  told 
Sir  Charles  why  and  how  he  had  been  induc 
ed  to  befriend  young  Manley,  and  also  referred 
to  his  connection  with  his  housekeeper,  and 
found  Sir  Charles  so  far  from  being  vexed  at 
these  subjects,  inclined  to  make  all  the  repara 
tion  in  his  power,  cheerfully  acquiescing  in 
signing  a  paper  drawn  up  by  Sir  Robert,  fully 
resigning  all  claims  to  Mrs.  Mario w's  hand, 
and  also  acknowledging  the  deceit  he  had 
practised.  Sir  Robert  who  had  supposed  him  to 
be  an  austere,  unprincipled  man,  was  greatly 
surprised  at  this.  Indeed  he  knew  not  what 
to  make  of  such  concession  on  his  part,  as 
was  readily  yielded  to  each  proposition. 

While  Sir  Robert  Brompton  was  thus  en 
gaged  with  the  baron,  there  appeared  at  the 
gates  of  Marlow  House,  a  man  whose  looks 
bespoke  him  as  belonging  to  the  humbler 
classes.  From  the  coarse  garments  that  he 
wore,  and  his  swarthy  complexion,  he  might 
have  been  supposed  to  belong  to  some  of  the 
roving  tribes  of  gipseys  that  infested  the  rural 
districts  of  England  at  this  period.  He  moved 
like  one  intent  upon  observing  everything 
about  him,  and  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  his 
own  thoughts.  To  his  inquiry  whether  Sir 
Charles  Marlow  was  at  home,  he  received  an 
affirmative  answer,  and  immediately  request 


ed  to  be  shown  to  his  presence,  as  he  wished 
to  see  him  on  some  personal  business. 

The  servant  had  intended  to  go  up  and  an 
nounce  the  stranger,  but  by  some  mistake  he 
followed  the  valet  into  the  reception  room, 
where  he  saw  Sir  Robert  and  Sir  Charles  to 
gether. 

"  Do  I  address  Sir  Charles  Marlow  ?"  asked 
the  stranger,  looking  at  the  baron. 

"  That  is  my  name,  sir.  Have  you  any 
business  with  me  ?"  asked  Sir  Charles,  some 
what  sharply. 

"  I  have,  sir.  Shall  it  be  transacted  here  ?" 
he  said,  looking  towards  Sir  Robert,  as  though 
he  desired  to  see  the  master  of  the  house 
alone. 

"  Yes,  and  briefly." 

The  other  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a  mo- 
merit,  and  to  regard  Sir  Charles  with  great 
steadiness  as  though  he  would  read  his  very 
soul  before  he  spoke  further,  and  then  said  : 

"  I  may  not  have  any  claims  upon  you, 
sir,  and  yet  I  have  presumed  to  ask  a  favor  on 
account  of  my  acquaintance  and  long  service 
with  your  brother." 

"My  brother?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  can  that  be,  since  he  has  been  these 
many  years  in  India  ?" 

"  It  was  there  that  we  served  together,  and 
on  parting  with  him  he  had  become  somewhat 
reduced,  and  he  borrowed  from  me  a  hundred 
pounds,  and  said  that  if  I  would  show  you  this 
signet  ring  as  a  token  from  him,  and  the  note, 
that  you  would,  he  thought  for  his  sake,  repay 
me.  I  happen  to  need  the  money  very  much 
at  present,  and  have  therefore  been  obliged  to 
seek  you,  though  I  have  just  arrived  in  Eng 
land." 

Sir  Charles  glanced  over  the  note  and 
threw  it  carelessly  upon  the  table  by  his  side, 
but  the  ring  he  looked  upon  more  closely. — 
His  countenance  seemed  to  show  that  a  strong 
but  silent  contest  was  going  on  within  his 
breast  relative  to  that  brother ;  he  even  seem 
ed  for  a  moment  to  forget  that  Sir  Robert 
Brompton  was  there,  or  that  the  stranger  was 
waiting,  but  at  last  he  asked  : 

"  Was  my  brother  well  when  you  left  him  ?" 

"  Perfectly  so,  though  the  climate  has  not 
spared  him;  he's  bronzed  by  exposure  and 
roughened  by  service." 

"  There   is   the   sum  that  the  note  repre- 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


sents,"  said  Sir  Charles,  handing  a  few  notes 
to  the  stranger. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  other,  taking  the 
amount  with  evident  satisfaction,  though  he 
thrust  it  into  his  pocket  without  counting  the 
money. 

"  Did  my  brother  send  no  word  by  you  ?" 
-asked  Sir  Charles,  with  interest,  still  regard 
ing  the  ring. 

"  Why,  yes,  he  bade  me  remind  you  of  the 
time  when  you  were  both  boys  together,  and 
tell  you  that  he  often  thought  much  and  ten 
derly  of  home ;  he  also  bade  me  to  recall  to 
you  the  period  when  your  mother  died,  and 
you  both,  then  boys,  followed  her  remains  to 
the  grave,  and  he  wished  me  to  say  to  you 
that  there  were  but  two  of  you  now,  and  that 
it  would  be  joyful  to  go  down  the  hill  of  life 
in  peace  together." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  this  ?"  asked  Sir  Charles, 
musing ;  "  he  did  but  speak  the  language  of 
my  own  heart.  There  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  be  so  widely  separated  from  each  oth 
er." 

"  Say  you  so  ?"  asked  the  stranger;  "  would 
you  really  wish  to  embrace  your  brother  ?  I 
thought  from  what  he  had  told  me  on  our 
long  marches,  that  there  was  a  want  of  sym 
pathy  between  you." 

"There  has  been,  but  I  feel  that  I  am 
changed  now." 

"  And  would  be  glad  once  more  to  embrace 
him  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Most  happy.  We  have  not  been  so  inti 
mate  as  two  brothers  should  be,  and  now  I 
feel  that  I  need  a  brother's  aid  and  counsel ;  but 
regrets  are  vain,  it  is  perhaps  too  late  for  me 
to  expect  ever  to  see  him  again." 

A  visible  change  had  come  over  the  stran 
ger  within  the  last  few  moments,  and  a  hasty 
movement  served  to  divest  him  of  the  rough  out 
ward  covering  that  he  wore,  leaving  him  stand 
ing  there  in  the  full  dress  uniform  of  a  general 
of  cavalry !  A  moment  after  and  either  re 
peated  the  name  of  the  other. 

"  Francis  !" 

"  Charles !" 

The  two  brothers  embraced  each  other  in 
tears.  Ay,  the  before  hard-hearted  elder  brother 
wept  now,  and  tears  rolled  over  the  sun-burnt 
cheek  of  the  East  Indian  officer.  Sir  .Robert 
Brompton  looked  on  with  no  ordinary  feelings 
of  interest.  The  sight  seemed  to  him  to  be 

The  next  number  of  this  uxrrk  trill 


almost  a  sacred  one,  and  with  the  knowledge 
of  Mrs.  Mario w's  story  which  he  possess 
ed,  he  fully  appreciated  the  scene  before  him. 
He  saw  in  a  moment  the  reason  why  that 
brother  had  come  to  his. early  home  in  dis 
guise,  and  he  wished  to  know  whether  time 
and  chance  had  softened  his  elder  brother's 
heart,  before  he  made  himself  known  to  him. 
And  after  they  had  spoken  of  those  subjects 
which  it  seemed  most  natural  for  the  first  to 
refer  to,  Sir  Robert  waited  impatiently  for  the 
officer  to  ask  after  her  whom  poverty  had  com 
pelled  him  to  leave  behind,  when  he  was  a 
cornet  just  starting  for  India. 

But  there  seemed  to  be  no  purpose  of  this 
sort  in  his  mind.  His  brother  having  intro 
duced  the  general  to  Sir  Robert,  he  also  said 
that  at  his  leisure  he  would  explain  to  him  the 
business  that  had  brought  Sir  Robert  at  that 
time  to  his  house,  but  that  at  present  they 
must  be  happy  together.  Sir  Robert  remark 
ed  casually  that  he  believed  he  was  well  ac 
quainted  with  one  whom  he 'had  once  held 
very  dear. 

"  Whom  do  you  refer  to  ?"  asked  General 
Marlow,  quite  innocently. 

"  Mrs.  Marlow,"  he  replied. 

"  Mrs.  Marlow  ?" 

"  Or  perhaps  I  should  say,  Emma  Warden, 
to  be  more  plain." 

"Emma  Warden ;  did  you  know  her,  sir  ?" 
asked  the  soldier,  seriously. 

*'  Did  I  know  her,  yes,  and  still  know  her, 
well,"  replied  Sir  Robert. 

"  There  is  some  strange  mistake  here,"  said 
the  officer,  "  Emma  Warden  died  many  years 
since,  almost  _s  soon  as  I  left  England.  I 
have  my  brother  j  letter  to  that  effect." 

"  A  falsehood,  urother,"  replied  Sir  Charles. 
"  A  deceit  only  worthy  of  one  as  guilty  as  I 
then  was.  Emma  Warden  still  lives,  and  has 
ever  been  true  to  you." 

"  Why,  this  is  very  strange.  And  where  is 
she  now,  pray  ?"  ht  asked,  earnestly. 

"  With  Sir  Robert  Brompton." 

"  She  has  had  the  direction  of  my  family 
for  years,  and  is  still  at  its  head." 

The  officer  mused  to  himself,  while  Sir 
Robert  felt  relieved  to  know  that  he  had  not 
remained  so  long  away  from  her  without  even 
writing  to  her,  while  he  believed  her  to  be 
alive  and  still  in  England. 

be  issued  on  Saturday,  June  29th. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


CHAPTER  LIL— [CONTINUED.] 


Some  moments  of  silence  transpired,  in 
which  the  soldier  seemed  hardly  able  to  realize 
the  fact  that  Emma  Warden  and  himself  had 
been  separated  for  so  many  years,  when  but 
for  the  deception  that  had  been  practised  upon 
him  they  might  have  been  enjoying  life  in  the 
sunshine  of  each  other's  smiles.  He  seemed 
more  visibly  moved  than  he  yet  had  been, 
and  Sir  Robert  appeared  to  fear  for  the  result 
between  the  two  brothers. 

"  O,  brother,  brother !"  said  the  officer, 
at  last — "this  is  the  severest  reflection  of 
all.  That  Emma,  for  whom  I  would  have 
given  up  everything,  that  I  might  call  her  my 
wife,  should  have  been  living  all  this  time, 
while  I  have  been  wasting  my  life  in  the 
wilds  of  India." 

"  Ah,  Francis,  you  can  add  no  words  that 
will  heighten  my  consciousness  of  my  own 
guilt." 

"  Nay,  I  would  not  reproach  you  at  such  a 
moment  as  this,  but  the  heart  will  speak  out, 
Jbrother." 

"  When  I  wrote  you  that  she  was  dead,  I  had 
designed  to  supersede  you  in  her  affections ;  but 
having  failed  in  that,  1  was  more  than  once 
tempted  to  refute  the  story  that  I  had  fabricat 
ed  ;  but  until  within  these  few  days  past,  I  have 
never  possessed  such  a  spirit  as  would  have  led 
me  to  consummate  so  just  a  determination." 


"  Let  bygones  be  bygones,"  suggested  Sir 
Robert  Brompton ;  "  I  can  judge  as  one  unpre 
judiced  between  you;  I  see  not  only  the  honest 
confession  on  the  one  hand,  but  the  heart  to  for 
give  on  the  other,  and  a  smiling  Providence 
over  all." 

The  soldier  gave  his  hand  to  Sir  Robert 
with  a  grateful  smile,  and  said,  cheerfully : 

"  You  say  well,  my  dear  sir ;  the  past  is 
beyond  recall,  and  it  only  remains  for  us  to 
improve  our  experience,  not  to  regret  that 
which  is  already  over,  and  past  help." 

"  There's  my  hand,  brother,"  he  continued, 
offering  this  token  to  Sir  Charles.  "  In  the 
future,  let  come  what  may,  we  will  be  to  each 
other  brothers  indeed,  and  thus  obliterate  the 
records  of  the  past." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  Francis — it  will  be  my 
constant  endeavor  to  atone  for  the  wrong  I 
have  done  you." 

As  the  soldier  took  Sir  Robert  Brompton's 
arm,  and  invited  him  to  a  short  walk  in  the 
park,  his  brother  knew  very  well  that  it  was 
to  inquire  after  her  to  whom  his  heart  was 
still  affianced. 

And  so  it  was.  Sir  Robert  answered  all 
his  curious  inquiries,  and  gave  him  a  full  his 
tory  of  her  who  had  formed  so  important  a 
member  in  his  household  for  a  period  of  years. 
His  informant  was  eloquent  in  describing  the 


292 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


good  qualities  of  Mrs.  Marlow;  her  kindness 
of  heart,  her  lady -like  delicacy  of  character, 
her  subdued  and  quiet  dignity  of  manner,  and 
in  short,  he  drew  such  a  truthful  yet  pleasing 
picture  of  the  soldier's  early  love,  that  he  was 
overjoyed  at  the  news  he  heard. 

"  And  she  is  now,  you  say,  at  Haredale  ?" 
continued  General  Marlow,  musing  to  him 
self,  and  picturing  her  image  in  his  mind. 

"  Yes,  at  a  cottage  where  I  occasionally 
repair  with  my  family,"  replied  Sir  Robert, 
observing  him  with  interest. 

"  Are  they  also  there  now  ?"  asked  the  sol 
dier,  somewhat  inquisitively. 

"  Only  an  adopted  daughter  and  Mrs.  Mar- 
low,"  replied  Sir  Robert,  smiling  within  him 
self  at  the  soldier's  query. 

"  How  odd  it  sounds  to  me  to  hear  you  call 
her  by  that  name — it  seems  so  misplaced,"  he 
said. 

"  True,  I  should  think  it  would.  It  appears 
that  she  retained  the  name  on  account  of  her 
father's  scruples. 

"  Yes,  yes — the  old  gentleman  was  over- 
conscientious — I  can  understand  it.  But  he 
was  a  fine  man,  Sir  Robert,  for  all  that." 

In  the  mood  that  was  actuating  General 
Marlow,  any  one  he  could  have  referred  to 
would  have  been  spoken  of  as  a  fine  person ; 
the  truth  was,  he  saw  everything  with  new 
eyes,  and  his  heart  leaped  as  fresh  as  in  boy- 
hood,  at  the  joyful  anticipation  of  once  more 
meeting  her  who  to  him  was  still  Emma 
"Warden,  the  curate's  daughter. 

Chatting  cheerfully  together,  Sir  Robert  and 
General  Marlow  repaired  once  more,  after  the 
walk,  to  the  house,  where  they  were  both 
kiadly  welcomed  by  its  masted. 


It  was  a  strange  party  that  was  gathered  in 
the  drawing-room  of  Marlow  House  that 
night.  Indeed  a  change  seemed  to  come  over 
verything  with  the  singular  vicissitude  that 
md  awakened  the  elder  brother  to  a  sense  of 
manhood  and  feeling.  Francis  looked  at  him 
cvith  surprise,  to  see  him  so  different  from  that 
which  he  had  seemed  when  they  had  parted 
:rom  each  other  last. 

He  was  no  longer  the  hard-hearted  elder 
brother,  arrogating  to  himself,  the  entire  benefit 
of  their  father's  estate,  but  he  was  a  brother 
indeed,  in  heart  and  in  action.  The  soldier 
could  but  sigh  to  think  they  had  not  better 
known  each  other  before,  but  present  joy  left 
little  inclination  in  his  breast  for  regrets. 

Sir  Charles  himself  told  his  brother  of  his 
stratagem  to  win  Emma's  hand,  and  of  her 
resolute  conduct,  and  subsequent  escape  from 
him.  He  acknowledged  his  perfidy,  and  de 
clared  that  he  now  held  himself  in  such  con 
tempt  for  the  exercise  of  the  spirit  that  had 
prompted  him  in  the  past,  that  he  could  never 
hold  up  his  head  with  a  manly  confidence 
again.  But  he  was  freely  forgiven,  and 
affectionately  entertained  by  his  brother  and 
Sir  Robert,  who  cheered  him  on  in  the  good 
resolve  that  he  had  made  for  the  future,  to 
atone,  as  far  as  was  in  his  power,  for  the  past. 
Francis  could  not  have  returned  at  a  more  op 
portune  moment,  either  for  himself  or  for  his 
brother,  and  both  himself  and  Sir  Charles  re 
alized  this  fully. 

Leaving  the  brothers  to  enjoy  each  other's 
society,  and  Francis  to  repress  his  impatience 
until  he  might  see  her  who  was  still  so  dear 
to  him,  we  must  turn  to  other  characters  of 
our  story. 


CHAPTER    LIII. 


A    GLANCE   AT   THE    PAST. 


Well — peace  to  thy  heart,  though  another's  it  be  ; 
And  health  to  thy  cheek,  though  it  bloom  not  for  me. 


MOORE. 


TIME  has  not  halted  one  moment, 
while  we  leave  one  circle  of  our  characters  to 
represent  another;  its  unceasing  course  is 
steadily  onward — they  all  advance  alike 
towards  death,  that  starting  post  for  heaven. 

Clara  was  still  moving  on  in  the  quiet,  un 
ostentatious  life  that  seemed  so  congenial  to 
her  feelings ;  the  birds  and  flowers  were  still 
her  constant  pets,  and  the  grove,  and  the  sol 
emnly  suggestive  graveyard  behind  the  village 
church,  her  daily  resort  for  contemplation 
and  thought.  When  she  was  alone,  her  life 
had  become  a  waking  day  dream,  and  all 
things  were  contemplated  through  a  gauze-like 
ideal  veil  of  soft  melancholy.  Mrs.  Marlow 
would  often  strive  to  dispel  the  mood  that 
seemed  to  render  Clara  so  insensible  to  the 
outward  world,  but  she  rarely  succeeded  in 
interesting  her  beyond  the  teeming  beauties 
of  the  harvest  scenes  that  surrounded  them 
at  this  season  of  the  year.] 

"Clara,  did  you  see  the  reapers  to-day,  as 
they  gathered  in  the  nodding  field  of  ripened 
grain?" 

"  I  watched  them  until  the  twilight  hour 
drove  them  home  with  sheaf  and  sickle,"  was 
the  reply. 


"  It  was  a  fair  sight,  a  generous  sight,  and 
I  watched  it  too ;  I  think  gratefully  of  the 
bounties  of  a  good  Providence.'' 

"  It  reminded  me,"  said  Clara,  "  of  the 
harvest  of  life,  and  I  wondered  how  many 
souls  were  fully  ripened,  that  the  reaper  Death 
cuts  down  and  gathers  into  sheaves,  garnering 
them  for  eternity." 

"  You  do  give  such  a  serious  cast  to  every 
thing,  Clara,  that  it  makes  me  feel  sad  to 
hear  you  converse." 

"  Do  I  ?"  said  Clara,  thoughtfully ;  "  well, 
I  know  I  am  growing  to  be  poor  company  for 
any  one  save  my  own  thoughts,  and  some 
times  these  are  sad  enough,  and  render  me 
quite  unhappy." 

"  Sir  Robert  is  coming  back  to-morrow,"  re 
plied  Mrs.  Marlow,  "  and  you  will  be  cheered 
by  his  presence,  Clara." 

"  It  was  a  singular  combination  of  circum 
stances  that  took  him  away  to  follow  Edward 
Manley  to  Marlow  House ;  how  very  odd  that 
chance  should  have  brought  the  young  man 
here  to  seek  for  employment — was  it  not  ?'r 

"  Most  truly,  it  was  very  strange ;  but  Provi 
dence  sometimes  chooses  singular  ways  to 
effect  its  objects.  You  said  that  it  was  a  strange 


294 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


chance,  Clara,  that  brought  him  here,  but  in 
my  mind,  it  was  as  much  ordained  that  this 
should  take  place  precisely  as  it  did,  as  it  was 
fore-ordained  that  you  and  I  should  live  as  we 
do  here." 

"  You  believe,  then,  Mrs.  Marlow,  that 
everything  is  fore-ordained  by  Heaven  ?" 

"  I  do,  most  assuredly,  and  all  my  experi 
ence  sustains  the  belief." 

Clara  sat  lost,  as  it  were,  in  meditation,  and 
Mrs.  Marlow  watched  the  working  of  her  ex 
pressive  countenance  with  more  than  usual 
interest  for  some  moments,  and  then  she 
asked : 

"  What  are  you  so  absorbed  in  thinking 
about,  Clara?"  The  tone  was  gentle  and 
confiding. 

"  I  was  thinking  that  I  wished  I  could  know 
the  future,  if  it  be  fore-ordained  and  prepared 
already.  I  think  I  could  then  be  happy — that 
I  should  be  content." 

"  What  would  you  know,  Clara,  more  than 
you  know  already?"  asked  the  good  Mrs. 
Marlow. 

"I  would  know,  my  dear  Mrs.  Marlow, 
whether  it  shall  ever  be  discovered  to  me  who 
my  parents  were  ?" 

"  Ah,  Clara,  it  matters  but  little  after  all,  so 
that  we  do  our  duty  to  each  other,  and  are 
content." 

"  Perhaps  not,  or  rather  it  may  seem  thus 
to  you,  who  know  not  the  want  of  this  im 
portant  knowledge." 

In  the  meantime,  Earnest  Brandon,  the 
young,  enthusiastic,  and  perhaps  a  little  ro 
mantic  curate  of  Haredale,  came  constantly 
to  the  cottage.  There  seemed  to  be  a  mutual 
understanding  between  him  and  Clara — for 
once  more  they  enjoyed  each  other's  society 
in  quiet  and  reflective  walks  together,  in  read 
ing  beneath  the  broad  old  elm  that  ornamented 
and  shaded  the  front  of  their  rural  abode,  as  well 
as  in  conversing  upon  the  subject  which  had 
within  six  months  or  a  year  past  become  so 
interwoven  with  her  feelings,  and  so  im 
pregnated  all  her  views  of  life.  We  mean 
the  Christian  religion,  as  Mr.  Brandon  had 
taught  it  to  her. 

To  observant  persons  who  saw  and  noted 
their  intimacy,  it  appeared  that  they  loved 
each  other  most  tenderly,  though  there  was 
no  evidence  of  this,  other  than  his  constancy ; 
there  were  no  other  tokens,  no  familiaT«|y,  no 


particular  expressions — and  yet  it  was  very 
true  that  the  attraction  of  Clara's  society  had 
so  powerfully  charmed  the  curate,  that  he  felt 
he  had  not  the  power  to  resist  the  temptation, 
and  determined  to  indulge  it,  but  with  guard 
ed  tongue,  and  careful  manner,  lest  he  might 
again  commit  himself.  He  did  not  entertain 
a  single  hope  of  ever  calling  her  his  wife,  for 
Clara  had  once  told  him  so  earnestly  and 
truthfully  that  this  could  never  be,  that  he  felt 
she  must  have  reasons  past  his  control ;  but 
he  could  not  deny  himself  the  sweet  enjoy 
ment  of  her  captivating  society. 

Not  permitted  to  speak  upon  the  one  subject 
that  so  warmly  actuated  his  breast,  yet  the 
curate  would  fancy  as  they  commented  upon 
these  absorbing  themes  that  had  become 
Clara's  life,  and  which  drew  forth  all  those 
tender  intonations  of  voice  which  the  heart 
can  so  easily  furnish  when  it  is  awakened  by 
feeling,  he  would  fancy,  we  say,  that  those 
tender  and  heart-awakening  tones  were  utter 
ed  thus  in  soft  and  winning  melody  for  his 
ear,  and  that  a  stranger  could  not  have  drunk 
of  such  sounds  from  her  lips.  And  when  he 
reached  his  quiet  little  home,  and  sat  himself 
down  in  his  little  library,  he  would  sit  for 
hours  and  recall  every  word  and  every  look 
that  had  passed — recall  the  tender  expressions 
of  feeling  lavished  by  Clara  upon  the  holy 
subject  upon  which  they  had  been  conversing, 
and  appropriate  half  of  them  to  such  a  cause 
as  his  heart  suggested. 

Mrs.  Marlow  thought  that  Clara  must  have 
reconsidered  her  refusal  of  Earnest  Brandon, 
— for  she  had  by  some  means  discovered  that 
she  had  once  declined  the  offer  of  the  curate's 
heart  and  hand, — they  seemed  to  be  again  so 
very  intimate ;  but  let  the  curate  and  Mrs. 
Marlow, think  what  they  will,  Clara  never 
entertained  the  least  thought  of  this  matter  : 
she  considered  it  settled  forever.  But  Earnest 
Brandon  was  deceiving  himself,  or  rather  lay 
ing  a  snare  for  his  own  heart,  in  the  way 
we  have  already  seen. 

It  was  a  fine  autumn  afternoon,  the  twi 
light  hour  had  already  begun  to  spread  its 
sombre  veil  over  the  landscape,  when  a  party 
dashed  up  to  the  entrance  of  the  cottage,  and 
dismounted.  It  was  Edith  and  Lord  Ami- 
down,  Lady  Josephine  and  Walter.  As  they 
approached,  the  curate  was  sitting  by  Clara's 
side  in  the  entrance,  and  now  for  the  first 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


295 


.  time,  met  Lord  Amidown  and  his  sister  at 
Haredale.  Lady  Josephine  approached  him 
at  once,  and  offering  her  hand,  greeted  him 
as  an  old  friend,  while  Edith  and  Walter  had 
already  known  him  here.  He  was  pressed  to 
join  the  party  at  the  tea-table,  where  Lady 
Josephine  seating  herself  by  his  side,  engaged 
him  in  a  conversation  too  low  to  be  overheard 
by  the  rest  of  the  party,  but  which  was  ex 
ceedingly  interesting  to  her,  and  which  seem 
ed  to  affect  the  curate  not  a  little. 

That  the  reader  may  the  better  understand 
the  character  of  Lady  Josephine,  the  curate 
and  the  scene  we  are  describing,  it  will  be 
necessary  to  go  back  for  a  period  of  years, 
and  represent  them  both  in  different  connec 
tions  from  those  they  now  fill. 

A  fair  personification  of  modest  worth  and 
rural  beauty  was  Lydia  Gray.  Born  of  hum 
ble  but  worthy  parents,  who  like  their  ances 
tors  for  many  generations  before  them  were 
dependants  to  the  proud  estate  of  the  Earl  of 
Amidown,  beneath  whose  castle  walls  the  cot 
tage  home  and  grounds  were  located.  Had 
not  Lydia  possessed  a  naturally  strong  and 
well  balanced  mind,  she  would  have  been 
spoiled  while  yet  a  child,  for  her  remarkable 
beauty  of  person  had  made  her  an  early  pet  at 
the  castle,  where  the  rich  heiress  to  this  broad 
domain,  the  lady  Josephine,  was  but  too  much 
delighted  to  find  a  companion  of  her  own  age 
and  sex  to  love,  and  with  whom  to  roam  about 
the  woods  and  glens  that  hem  in  the  lands  of 
the  estate,  and  render  it  one  of  the  fairest 
rural  districts  in  all  of  "  Merrie  England." 

To  this  preference  Lydia  was  indebted  for 
the  liberal  instruction  which  had  so  improved 
and  cultivated  her  natural  taste,  and  rendered 
her,  mentally,  at  least,  her  noble  patron's 
equal.  The  castle  was  her  constant  abode, 
and  the  youthful  Lady  Josephine  would  scarce 
ly  permit  her  to  be  out  of  her  sight.  This 
favoritism  was  also  of  no  little  value  to  Martin 
Gray,  her  father,  who  never  failed  to  have  his 
rent  remitted  in  full  at  the  close  of  every  half 
year.  Besides  this  liberality,  the  steward  of 
the  castle  was  in  the  practice  of  sending  some 
substantial  token  each  returning  Christmas  of 
his  lord's  good  will  to  the  honest  farmer  and 
father  of  his  daughter's  protegee,  the  pretty 
little  Lydia,  whose  flaxen  curls  and  dimpled 
cheeks  had  won  the  hearts  of  the  entire 
household. 


The  same  instructors  and  private  tutors 
who  were  engaged  for  the  high-born  child  of 
fortune,  also  bestowed  their  attentions  in  com 
mon  upon  the  humble  but  no  less  beautiful 
child  of  Martin  Gray.  Her  clothes  were  from 
the  same  wardrobe,  her  toys  and  books  from 
the  same  source,  and  in  short  had  Lydia 
been  a  sister  to  Josephine  she  could  have 
shared  no  more  fully  the  kind  consideration 
and  munificent  providence  of  the  stately 
and  proud  Earl.  The  father  of  Josephine  was 
a  man  of  profound  study  and  erudition,  most 
observant  of  the  tender  flower  which  Heaven 
had  sent  him  to  rear  and  cherish,  and  who, 
with  a  brother  of  about  her  own  age,  must  be 
his  representatives,  and  that  of  his  lordly  line 
of  ancestors  in  the  future,  for  with  him  now 
rested  alone  the  name  of  Amidown.  His  wife 
had  died  when  Josephine  was  about  fifteen, 
and  the  earl  was  not  a  man  to  love  or  to  mar 
ry  twice. 

In  little  Lydia  he  had  discovered  the  germs 
of  a  sweet  temper,  a  generous  and  yielding 
disposition,  and  those  traits  of  mildness  that  in 
after  years  form  the  crowning  beauty  of  her 
sex.  To  secure  such  an  example  and  influ 
ence  in  his  daughter's  behalf,  was  the  actua^- 
ing  motive  of  her  father  in  rearing  and  foster 
ing  Lydia  thus  gently,  and  in  striving  to  ren 
der  her  in  all  respects  a  desirable  associate  for 
hi?  own  child.  Money  and  influence  the 
earl  knew  very  well,  would  easily  procure 
polished  and  courtly  companions  for  his  daugh 
ter,  but  money  could  not  create  nor  purchase 
the  traits  which  had  so  challenged  his  ad 
miration  in  the  farmer's  child. 

Time  in  its  steady  unwavering  course 
brought  with  it  approaching  maturity,  and  the 
two  friends,  after  years  of  sweet  companion 
ship,  were  now  just  blooming  into  womanhood, 
and  the  attendant  charms  that  wait  upon  the 
flower  in  its  ripened  fragrance  and  perfection. 
There  is  no  period  when  the  gentle  sex  ap 
pear  more  lovely  or  more  interesting,  than  at 
this  age  ;  when  the  heart,  peculiarly  suscepti 
ble,  is  filled  with  the  ideal,  and  in  its  fullness 
of  joy  is  ready  to  lavish  its  wealth  of  love  and 
devotion  upon  another ;  when  all  life's  phases 
are  seen  through  the  soft  twilight  hue  of 
romance.  The  simplest  token  of  regard  is 
then  cherished  as  of  inestimable  value,  the 
most  ordinary  events  are  clothed  with  tender 
thoughts  and  comparisons,  every  association  is 


296 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


truthful,  or  believed  to  be  so,  and  the  bright 
star  of  hope  is  the  only  magnet  that  attracts 
the  soul. 

Disappointment  has  not  yet  clouded,  nor 
care  corroded  the  heart ;  the  cold,  selfish  breath 
of  the  world  has  not  yet  mildewed  the  fair 
and  stainless  purity  of  that  brow;  no  tears, 
save  those  of  gentle  sympathy,  have  dimmed 
the  brightness  of  those  volumed  eyes;  the  bit 
ter  realities  of  life  are  all  yet  to  come.  Jose 
phine  and  Lydia  had  as  yet  tasted  nothing  of 
their  bitterness. 

Residing  as  they  did  in  a  somewhat  isolated 
district,  the  two  saw  few  individuals  beyond 
the  circle  of  the  household,  and  their  instruc 
tors.  True,  they  mingled  at  times  in  the  vil 
lage  sports  on  May  day,  and  other  occasions 
of  rural  gatherings,  but  the  profound  respect 
that  custom  demanded  of  the  humbler  classes 
towards  such  as  the  earl's  daughter,  general 
ly  acted  as  a  source  of  restraint  upon  such 
minglings,  and  both  the  lady  and  the  villagers 
realized  that  they  enjoyed  themselves  better 
in  their  legitimate  spheres.  It  is  true  that 
Josephine's  free  heart  would  sometimes  rebel, 
and  her  native  spirit  sigh  for  the  freedom  and 
enjoyment  that  the  humble  peasantry  partici 
pated  in  with  such  zest,  but  in  the  wearing  of 
her  title  and  position  she  must  pay  the  attend 
ant  penalty. 

Yet  there  was  one  person  who  was  an  ac 
knowledged  friend  of  Lydia's,  and  on  whom 
Josephine  herself  often  smiled,  a  youth  of  the 
valley,  named  Earnest  Brandon,  whose  father, 
though  like  Martin  Gray  a  dependant  of  the 
estate  of  Amidown,  was  still  a  thrifty  man, 
and  whose  good  fortune  and  industry  had  en 
abled  him  to  amass  what  to  one  with  his  hum 
ble  desires  and  actual  wants  was  a  comfortable 
fortune.  Earnest's  father  had  thus  been  en 
abled  to  afford  him  advantages  for  cultivation 
and  personal  improvement,  not  generally  en 
joyed  by  those  of  his  class  of  society  at  that 
period.  From  early  childhood,  Earnest  had 
associated  with  Lydia  Gray,  and  the  signal 
advancement  that  he  saw  her  make  under  the 
patronage  of  the  earl  and  his  daughter,  incit 
ed  him  to  more  than  ordinary  exertion.  He 
loved  Lydia  in  secret,  but  her  proud  associa 
tions  at  the  castle  rendered  him  perhaps  timid 
and  doubtful,  as  to  his  success  with  her — 
though  she  was  ever  kind  and  considd%te  to 
him.  But  he  reasoned,  that  with  her  meet, 


conceding  disposition,  she  would  be  thus  to 
any  other,  and  indeed  he  had  never  received 
from  her  any  peculiar  mark  of  regard  or  af 
fection. 

It  is  doubtful  if  any  power  of  ordinary  am 
bition  could  have  made  Earnest  Brandon  so 
constant  a  student,  such  "  a  consumer  of  mid 
night  oil,"  save  the  desire  to  equal  Lydia  in 
mental  attainments,  and  to  feel  more  and  more 
worthy  of  the  love  he  secretly  coveted.  As  it 
was,  his  leisure  moments  were  preciously  hus 
banded,  and  a  good  book  was  always  ready  to 
his  hand.  Many  and  many  a  time  had  he 
walked  three  leagues  to  the  nearest  market 
town,  where  he  could  procure  such  books  as  he 
wanted,  and  he  performed  the  journey  at  night 
to  save  time  and  expense,  in  order  that  he 
might  afford  himself  the  mental  luxury  he  de 
sired. 

The  indulgence  and  cultivation  of  such  a 
taste  was  not  without  its  physical  as  well  as 
mental  effect  upon  Earnest.  The  fine  manly 
expression  of  his  brow  was  heightened  in  its 
beauty  by  a  beaming  spirit  of  intelligence, 
while  his  conversation  made  his  society  covet 
ed  by  all,  and  even  highly  entertaining  and 
agreeable  to  Lydia  and  Josephine,  when  he 
was  fortunate  enough  to  meet  them  in  a  situ 
ation  where  they  could  mingle  in  social  inter 
course.  And  thus  years  were  recorded  in  the 
ledger  of  time,  until  Josephine  and  Lydia  were 
eighteen  years  of  age,  and  Earnest  Brandon 
was  twenty. 

The  earl  now  resolved  to  take  his  daughter 
to  his  town  residence  in  London,  deeming  her 
of  sufficient  age  to  begin  to  see  and  partially 
to  mingle  with  that  society  which  in  time  he 
hoped  she  would  grace,  and  in  which  she  must 
eventually  take  the  position  that  her  rank  and 
fortune  commanded.  Josephine  had  been  to 
London  for  a  short  period  at  a  time  before,  but 
now  that  she  was  to  take  up  her  residence 
there,  she  felt  no  little  regret  at  bidding  fare 
well  to  the  scenes  of  quiet,  peaceful  happiness 
that  were  entwined  with  the  memory  of  her 
childhood's  home.  All  innocent  and  untaint 
ed  by  the  pride  and  allurements  of  the  world, 
these  feelings  had  strong  influence  upon  Jose 
phine,  and  she  shed  tears  of  genuine  sorrow 
at  parting  from  her  rural  home.  The  earl 
saw  that  his  daughter  was  unhappy,  and  de 
termined  that  Lydia  should  accompany  her 
to  town,  as  he  thought  by  this  means  partially 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


297 


to  reconcile  her  to  an  event  that  at  first  so 
seriously  dashed  her  spirits. 

Both  Lydia  and  Josephine  were  delighted 
at  the  prospect  of  remaining  still  together,  and 
in  a  fortnight  they  were '  domesticated  in  the 
town  house  of  the  Earl  of  Amidown. 

Through  the  kindness  of  the  earl  and 
Josephine,  Lydia  was  introduced  to  their  do 
mestic  circle  on  an  equal  footing  with  her  no 
ble  friend  and  companion ;  but  as  Josephine 
was  deemed  yet  too  young  to  go  largely  into 
society,  her  circle  was  still  limited.  Yet  she 
began  to  mingle  with  the  world  sufficiently  to 
feel  its  influence,  and  even  became  gradually 
much  devoted  to  dress  and  fashion.  The 
town  had  charms  for  her  that  Lydia  could 
not  appreciate,  but  still  the  proud  girl  loved 
her  humble  friend  none  the  less,  though  day 
by  day  the  impressions  of  her  rural  home 
were  less  and  less  potently  felt.  It  was  not 
so  with  Lydia  ;  her  gentle  nature  was  better 
fitted  to  the  soft  scenery  and  music  of  nature, 
a  bubbling  brook  across  a  forest  path,  or  wind 
ing  like  a  thread  of  silver  through  a  verdant 
meadow,  had  inexpressible  charms  for  her. — 
And  not  unfrequently  her  spirit  fluttered  in 
her  breast,  like  a  caged  bird  longing  for  the 
freedom  and  invigorating  air  of  the  merry 
greenwood. 

Finding  at  last  how  uncongenial  with  her 
taste  these  town  associations  were,  Jose 
phine  reluctantly  consented  to  Lydia's  re 
turning  to  her  friends  in  the  country.  But 
the  fair  young  girl  had  made  more  than  one 
gay  city  acquaintance  who  was  smitten  by  her 
simple  attractions.  She  had  heeded  but 
lightly  the  fashionable  compliments  of  these 
persons,  and  weighed  them  in  a  scale  of  calm, 
but  deep  penetration,  that  showed  her  very 
truly  how  shallow  they  were  at  heart.  And 
yet,  strange  to  say,  as  careful  as  she  thought 
herself,  and  as  much  on  her  guard  as  she 
ever  was,  the  person  whose  attention  was 
most  agreeable  to  her,  was  the  one  who  of  all 
the  company  at  the  earl's  hospitable  mansion 
was  the  least  worthy  of  her  confidence. 
Lydia  did  not  strongly  affect  him,  but  was 
rather  won  by  his  extraordinary  conversation 
al  powers  than  by  any  other  peculiarity  relat 
ing  to  his  person  or  mind.  He  was  a  young 
officer  in  the  king's  guard,  one  who  had  strong 
natural  advantages,  and  to  these  he  added  a 
large  experience  in  travel  and  reading.  Col. 


Dudley  might  have  been  in  years  nearly  thir 
ty,  but  he  was  of  a  fine  figure,  handsome  and 
graceful— just  the  person  to  fill  a  lady's 
eye.  Lydia  could  not  but  be  pleased  with  the 
polite  and  delicate  attention  of  such  a  man, 
and  she  had  enjoyed  many  pleasant  hours 
with  him  at  the  earl's  before  it  was  announced 
that  she  would  return  again  to  the  country. 
When  she  did  go,  the  manner  in  which  Col. 
Dudley  bid  her  good-by  impressed  her  some 
what  by  its  earnestness. 

Scarcely  had  Lydia  greeted  her  friends  at 
home,  and  met  with  Earnest  Brandon,  who 
was  as  cordial  as  he  dared  to  be  in  expressing 
his  pleasure  at  again  meeting  her,  when  Col. 
Dudley  appeared  in  the  neighborhood,  declar 
ing  that  a  sudden  order  upon  business  connect 
ed  with  his  official  position  had  brought  him 
into  the  neighborhood,  and  being  so  near,  he 
could  not  permit  himself  to  leave  without  a 
call  upon  her  at  her  'home. 

His  stay  proved  so  protracted  that  Earnest 
Brandon  began  to  feel  a  certain  uneasiness, 
and  after  a  while  discovered  that  the  heart 
which  would  else  have  been  his,  was  already 
more  than  half  won  by  the  gallant  Colonel 
Dudley  of  the  king's  guard.  And  so  it  really 
was ;  Lydia  was  dazzled  by  his  conversational 
powers,  and  he  had  at  last  won  her  entire 
confidence.  By  what  means,  or  through 
what  promises,  no  one  knew.  At  last  he  left 
her  for  the  city,  but  he  came  not  back  again. 

One  month  after  that  period  Lydia  was 
found  drowned  in  the  deep  brook  that  inter 
sected  the  forest  path  near  her  father's  cottage. 
The  story  needed  no  interpreter ! 

Earnest  Brandon  had  loved  her,  but  there 
had  never  been  a  reciprocity  of  feeling  be 
tween  them ;  that  is  to  say,  no  near  intimacy 
had  ever  been  cultivated  between  him  and 
Lydia,  but  he  felt  the  blow  to  his  peace  of 
mind  keenly,  and  this  very  incident  it  was 
that  gave  to  his  character  the  melancholy  turn 
that  we  have  already  alluded  to,  and  it  was 
also  this  early  blight  upon  his  hopes  that  had 
led  him  to  embrace  the  profession  that  now 
occupied  him.  In  Clara  he  found  one  who 
had  not  only  more  beauty,  more  strength  of 
character,  and  a  more  lovely  perfection  in  all 
respects,  but  also  one  who  sympathized  sin 
cerely  with  him  in  the  devout  and  religious 
sentiments  that  occupied  so  large  a  space  in 
his  thoughts. 


CHAPTER     LIV. 


MEETING   OF   OLD    FRIENDS 


Absence,  with  all  its  pains, 

Is  by  this  charming  moment  wiped  away. 


THOMSON. 


WE  have  related  a  scrap  from  the  history 
of  Earnest  Brandon,  the  curate  of  Haredale, 
and  he  who  was  now  so  devotedly  attached 
to  Clara,  in  part  because  it  served  in  some  de 
gree  to  inform  the  reader  of  the  early  life  of 
Lady  Josephine,  as  well  as  of  one  who  had 
become  so  much  of  a  confidant  with  Clara. 
Lady  Josephine  knew  of  the  feelings ,  enter 
tained  by  the  curate  for  Lydia  when  they 
were  playmates  and  companions  together,  and 
she  knew  too  of  the  tragical  result  of  Colonel 
Dudley's  intimacy,  and  for"  which,  by  her 
father's  influence,  he  was  disgraced,  and  dis 
missed  from  the  service. 

Clara  and  Edith  wandered  again  over  these 
scenes,  rendered  so  interesting  by  the  many 
thoughtful  hours  that  Clara  had  passed  there ; 
each  opened  her  heart  most  fully  to  the  other, 
and  their  sympathy  was  freely  mingled. 
Edith  had  so  much  to  tell  her  dear  friend  of 
her  proposed  marriage  which  was  soon  to  take 
place,  of  her  arrangements,  and  happy  pros 
pects,  that  they  found  hardly  any  time  for 
gloomy  reflections ;  they  were  a  happy  party, 
all  four  of  these  who  had  just  come  down 
from  the  city.  ^^ 

The   harvest   twilight  lay   in   picturesque 


beauty  about  the  cottage,  and  so  soft  and 
genial  was  the  hour  that  the  whole  party  had 
seated  themselves  about  the  lawn  in  the  im 
mediate  vicinity  of  the  entrance  where  the 
ladies  were  chatting  together,  including  Mrs. 
Marlow  and  Clara,  the  former  sewing  on  a 
light  piece  of  embroidery.  While  the  party 
were  thus  engaged,  their  ears  were  saluted  by 
the  approach  of  a  travelling  chaise,  which 
stopped  opposite  the  entrance  of  the  lawn, 
before  the  cottage. 

The  first  person  who  stepped  out  of  the 
vehicle  was  a  little  above  the  medium  size,  a 
man  past  the  prime  of  life,  who  walked  a 
little  lame  as  he  approached.  This  was  Sir 
Robert  Brompton.  His  companion  was  a 
taller  person  than  himself,  of  a  fine  manly 
figure,  and  handsome,  sun-burnt  countenance. 
He  was  dressed  in  the  national  undress  uni 
form,  and  walked  forward  with  a  quick,  nerv 
ous  step,  as  he  came  to  the  side  of  Sir  Rob 
ert. 

"  Who  are  these  ?"  asked  Lord  Amidown, 
turning  to  Walter. 

"  One  is  Sir  Robert,  I  know,"  exclaimed 
Edith,  rushing  forward  and  giving  him  a  sin 
cere  and  hearty  kiss. 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


299 


"  It  is  Sir  Robert,"  said  Walter,  as  he  and 
Lord  Amidown  came  and  cordially  pressed  his 
hand  at  meeting. 

Clara  had  discovered  that  it  was  he  even 
before  any  of  the  rest,  but  she  came  forward 
the  last  one  to  greet  him,  and  did  not  kiss 
him  until  after  he  had  pressed  his  own  lip  to 
her  cheek,  and  spoken  kindly  to  her. 

Sir  Robert  spoke  to  Mrs.  Marlow  also,  but 
she  either  heard  him  not,  or  was  too  much 
absorbed  to  answer.  As  she  gazed  upon  the 
commanding  figure  and  deportment  of  the 
gentleman  by  his  side,  her  work  dropped  from 
her  hands,  and  she  looked  upon  the  soldier 
with  eyes  that  bespoke  the  utmost  intensity  of 
feeling.  He  seemed  to  be  struggling  with 
Sir  Robert,  who  held  him  back  by  the  arm, 
as  though  he  wished  to  see  if  Mrs.  Marlow 
would  know  him. 

"  Francis  !"  she  almost  whispered,  "  is  it 
Francis,  or  am  I  again  deceived  ?  I  pray 
you  speak  to  me,  sir." 

"  It  is  General  Francis  Marlow,"  said  Sir 
Robert.  "  You  need  feel  no  fear  of  deception 
this  time,  I  assure  you."  I 

"  Yes,  Emma,  it  is  indeed  Francis,"  he  said, 
taking  her  hand  tenderly,  and  leading  her 
away  toward  the  grove. 

"There  go  two  happy  beings,"  said  Sir 
Robert,  rubbing  his  hands  with  perfect  de 
light  at  the  sight  he  beheld. 

Sir  Robert  had  not  waited  to  introduce 
General  Marlow  to  any  one.  That  he  deemed 
to  be  of  no  importance  at  such  a  moment,  but 
now  that  the  two  had  left  them,  half  a  hun 
dred  questions  poured  in  upon  him  at  once 
from  Lord  Amidown,  Walter,  Edith,  and  even 
Clara,  to  know  if  that  was  indeed  Francis 
Marlow,  and  the  early  lover  of  the  dear  good 
housekeeper.  To  these  inquiries,  Sir  Robert 
replied  in  detail,  telling  them  how  the  discov 
ery  of  his  arrival  had  just  been  made  at  his 
brother's,  and  how  his  brother  had  changed 
and  become  a  liberal  and  noble-hearted  man, 
as  it  were,  all  at  once,  dividing  his  entire  es 
tates  with  him  whom  he  had  so  seriously  in 
jured  years  before.  He  told  them  also  of  his 
successful  arrangements  relating  to  young 
Edward  Manley  and  the  gentle  village  girl 
whom  he  loved.  In  short,  Sir  Robert  came 
to  them  so  laden  with  good  tidings  and  in 
teresting  news,  that  they  very  nearly  wearied 
him  out  with  questions  and  congratulations. 


"  Is  Fanny  Hardway  pretty  ?"  asked  Lady 
Josephine. 

"  What  did  she  say  when  she  found  that 
all  was  so  happily  settled  ?"  asked  Edith,  with 
speaking  eyes. 

"  Did  not  her  mother  and  father  press  her 
to  their  hearts  after  all  this  ?"  asked  Clara,  in 
her  turn. 

Sir  Robert,  as  happy  as  any  of  them,  an 
swered  all  in  a  breath,  and  told  them  of  the 
poor,  half-witted  boy  who  was  so  happy  after 
the  marriage  was  stopped,  and  so  miserable 
before  it,  and  how  the  village  gossips  had  re 
solved  to  take  a  holiday  for  the  especial  purpose 
of  discussing  and  catechising  about  the  whole 
transaction,  and  how  happy  in  the  meantime 
Fanny  and  Edward  were. 

It  is  needless  for  us  to  particularize  as  it 
regards  the  interview  between  General  Mar- 
low  and  his  long  lost  and  early  love.  Suffice 
it  that  everything  was  fully  explained,  and  a 
glance  at  each  other's  lives  given  since  they 
parted.  While  he  had  grown  to  the  full  prime 
of  manhood,  she  had  hardly  yet  lost  one 
charm  of  her  more  maidenly  years.  Her 
full,  clear  black  eyes  lacked  not  the  power  that 
love  imparts,  and  General  Marlow  looked  upon 
her  with  feelings  like  those  that  actuated  his 
heart  when  years  ago,  he  had  kissed  her  fair 
young  cheek,  and  sworn  eternal  fidelity ;  and 
he  had  been  faithful  to  her.  His  early  disap 
pointment  had  given  him  a  distaste  for  society, 
and  devoted  to  his  profession,  he  had  struggled 
on  with  hardships  of  all  sorts  and  characters 
in  discharge  of  his  duty. 

"  But  can  you  love  me  now  as  well  as 
then  ?"  she  asked,  in  answer  to  his  earnestly 
declared  regard. 

"  Ay,  better,  Emma,  better.  We  both  know 
more  of  the  world,  and  of  ourselves  now,  and 
our  hearts  will  yield,  when  need  be,  more 
pliantly  to  the  dictates  of  the  head.  Love 
you  as  well  ?  I  have  never  ceased  to  love 
you.  This  little  talisman  has  been  about  my 
neck  in  every  battle,  and  by  every  camp  fire,  on 
the  open  plain,  and  in  the  mountain,  fighting 
with  human  beings,  and  with  the  wild  and 
fearful  beasts  of  the  Eastern  jungles.  It  has 
never  left  me,  Emma." 

As  he  spoke  he  took  from  his  bosom  a 
miniature  that  was  suspended  about  his  neck 
by  a  small  golden  chain.  It  was  Emma's 
token  when  they  had  confidently  hoped  to 


300 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


consummate  this  love  for  each  other  by  mar 
riage.  This  token  of  fond  regard  flooded  her 
cheeks  with  tears,  and  she  felt  that  she  was 
indeed  dear  to  him  who  had  been  thus  faith 
ful. 

Before  they  left  the  grove,  they  became  a 
second  time  betrothed  to  each  other,  and  as 
Mrs.  Marlow  approached  the  pleasant  group 
on  the  stoop  of  the  cottage,  her  expressive 
countenance  told  them  how  happy  she  was, 
and  that  the  gallant  soldier  by  her  side  was 
the  same  at  heart  as  the  young  cornet  had 
been  years  ago. 

Now  it  was  time  forjSir  Robert  to  introduce 
the  new  comer  in  a  formal  manner,  though 
little  formality  was  observed  among  such  a 
cheerful,  happy  party  just  from  town,  come 
down  into  the  country  to  enjoy  themselves,  and 
be  merry.  The  only  draw-back  to  the  fullness 
of  their  pleasure  was  the  fact  that  Clara  could 
not  join  them  with  her  old  accustomed  spirits, 
but  she  placed  them  all  at  ease  concerning  her 
by  her  pleasant  and  ever  cheerful  mien.  She 
could  not  help  feeling  overjoyed  at  the  delight 
ful  re-union  that  she  had  just  witnessed  be 
tween  her  dear  friend  Mrs.  Marlow  and  the 
general.  This  was  enough  in  itself  to  tem 
porarily  dispel  the  gloom  from  her  beautiful 
and  delicate  features,  and  Sir  Robert  and 
Edith  whispered  together  as  they  observed  the 
new  animation  there,  that  the  dear  girl  was 
getting  better. 

"  God  grant  that  it  may  be  so,  Edith,"  said 
Sir  Robert,  earnestly,  "  for  those  blue  veins 
are  sometimes  fearfully  distinct  upon  her  tem 
ples  and  brow,  and  now  I  am  about  to  lose 
you  from  my  side,  I  feel  doubly  drawn  towards 
poor  Clara."  - 

Edith  put  her  arm  gently  about  his  neck, 
and  kissed  him  as  he  said  this,  for  she  saw  a 
lingering  tear  in  his  eye. 

"  Have  you  had  an  opportunity  to  speak 
with  Clara  in  private  since  your  arrival  ?" 
asked  Sir  Robert,  still  observing  her  of  whom 
he  spoke,  marking  her  placid  smile  and  the 
oftentimes  quick  motion  of  her  bosom,  as  a 
pang  seemed  to  cross  her  heart. 

"  Scarcely,  though  we  have  been  some 
together,"  she  replied. 

"  And  do  you  think  her  any  less  melancholy 
than  when  she  first  came  down  tdfearedale  ?" 
he  continued. 

"  No,  I  do  not  think  her  much  changed ; 


she  has  more"  time  for  thought,  and  less  ex 
citement  here,  arid  is  doubtless  more  truthful 
in  her  appearance  than  when  she  was  in  town, 
where  she  strove  to  throw  a  cloak  of  mirth 
over  her  feelings." 

"  This  is  just  as  I  have  supposed,"  continued 
Sir  Robert,  "  and  you  seem  to  understand  her 
like  myself,  Edith." 

At  this  moment  the  subject  of  their  remarks 
approached  them,  and  coming  to  Sir  Robert's 
side,  braided  a  sprig  of  flowing  myrtle  through 
the  button  holes  of  his  coat,  and  made  a 
wreath  of  the  same  for  Edith's  hair. 

"  Which  of  these  girls  do  you  love  best  ?" 
asked  General  Marlow,  who  had  been  watching 
the  pure  regard  that  Sir  Robert's  face  express 
ed  for  Clara,  "  your  own  daughter  or  the 
adopted  one,  eh,  Sir  Robert  ?" 

"  It  is  hard  to  say,"  replied  Sir  Robert, 
starting  at  the  question,  from  a  reverie  that 
had  absorbed  him  for  a  moment.  "If  you 
knew  their  story,  you  would  not  perhaps  won 
der  at  the  feelings  I  possess." 

"  Lady  Josephine  has  been  telling  me  part 
of  it — just  enough  to  render  me  very  curious 
to  know  all  the  particulars.  This  Clara  is  a 
sweet  creature,  though  Edith  is  the  hand 
somer,  I  should  say.  There,  observe  now, 
Sir  Robert."  As  he  spoke,  Edith  and  Clara 
had  entwined  each  an  arm  about  the  other's 
waist,  and  were  turning  away  together  for  a 
short  walk  in  the  twilight. 

"  How  very  like  they  are  !"  said  Sir  Robert, 
watching  them  until ,  they  had  turned  out  of 
sight  among  the  hedges. 

Walter  sat  down  with  General  Marlow,  and 
together  they  talked  over  matters  relating  to 
Calcutta,  Walter's  native  place,  and  the  officer 
took  much  pleasure  in  describing  to  him  the 
changes  that  had  recently  taken  place,  and 
also  in'  listening  to  Walter's  story  of  his  own 
and  Sir  Robert's  adventure  together  after  they 
sailed  from  India.  In  the  meantime  Sir  Rob 
ert  and  Lord  Amidown  were  talking  over 
some  trifling  matters  relating  to  the  proposed 
ceremony  of  marriage  that  was  soon  to  take 
place  between  Edith  and  himself. 

Suddenly  a  shrill  cry  as  of  horror  came  upon 
the  evening  air,  and  startled  the  party  of  gen 
tlemen  and  Lady  Josephine  who  were  by  the 
cottage  door.  Walter  and  Sir  Robert  were 
upon  their  feet  in  an  instant,  and  in  answer  to 
Mrs.  Marlow's  suggestion,  sprang  at  the  top 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


301 


of  their  speed  towards  the  grove  in  the  rear  of 
the  cottage.  They  soon  came  in  sight  of 
Edith,  who  stood  with  extended  arms  and  pal 
lid  face  on  the  brink  of  a  broad  and  deep 
stream  that  intersected  the  grounds  of  the 
grove.  Walter  understood  at  once  the  state 
of  affairs,  dashed  his  coat  from  him  as  he  ran 
leaping  in  a  moment  into  the  swiftly  running 
stream.  Sir  Robert  was  less  thoughtful  as  to 
himself,  and  only  intent  upon  understanding 
the  hurried  exclamations  of  Edith,  sprung 
from  the  bank  into  the  water  with  every  arti 
cle  of  dress  upon  him  as  usual. 

Clara  had  already  sunk  below  the  surface, 
and  having  satisfied  himself  as  to  the  spot,  Wal 
ter  had  twice  dove  down  already,  but  had  fail 
ed  to  reach  her.  Sir  Robert  was  the  same 
indomitable  spirit  that  we  have  represented 
him  to  be  heretofore.  His  physical  strength 
was  immense,  and  he  was  even  more  at  home 
in  the  deep  water  with  all  his  clothes  on,  than 
was  Walter.  At  last  Walter  discovered  her, 
but  his  own  strength  was  nearly  gone,  and  he 
rose  to  the  surface  to  breathe,  designating  to 
Sir  Robert  where  she  lay.  Taking  Walter's 
directions  in  less  than  a  minute,  Sir  Robert 
had  brought  the  lifeless  girl  to  the  surface,  and 
with  a  strong  arm  he  swam  to  the  shore  where 
the  rest  of  the  party  was  ready  with  every  as 
sistance  to  help  them  up  the  steep  bank,  and 
to  apply  every  restorative  to  Clara  that  experi 
ence  suggested. 

Walter  had  very  nearly  fallen  a  victim  to 
his  own  anxiety  to  rescue  Clara,  for  it  requir 
ed  the  united  efforts  of  General  Marlow  and 
Lord  Amidown  to  raise  him  from  the  water  at 
the  bank,  he  had  become  so  exhausted.  Not  so 
Sir  Robert ;  his  strong  arm  had,  while  he  was 
sustaining  Clara,  twice  lent  its  ready  aid  to 
Walter,  in  helping  him  towards  the  shore  ;  all 
having  transpired  so  quickly  that  the  others 
had  hardly  time  to  render  them  other  aid. — 
Some  wine  from  the  house  soon  revived  Wal 
ter,  while  Sir  Robert  bore  the  lifeless  form  of 
Clara  in  his  arms  to  the  cottage. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  consciousness 
was  restored  to  her;  to  those  anxious  ones 


about  her,  it  seemed  an  age.  At  last,  how 
ever,  she  breathed  again  with  a  deep  sigh, 
and  gradually  the  lungs  assumed  their  func 
tion.  This  accident  threw  a  gloom  about  the 
cottage,  notwithstanding  its  fortunate  termina 
tion,  for  some  days  ;  but  it  was  not  more  than 
a  week  before  all  were  once  more  reseated  about 
the  family  board  in  peace  and  good  health. 

It  appeared  that  as  Edith  and  Clara  were 
wandering  on  together  after  leaving  the  cot 
tage,  they  approached  quite  nearly  to  the 
water's  bank,  which  was  rather  precipitous, 
and  Clara  turning  her  eyes  upon  it,  gazed  for 
a  moment,  and  as  though  she  had  become  sud 
denly  dizzy,  lost  her  balance,  or  else  her  feet 
slipped,  and  she  fell  into  the  current.  Of 
course  it  was  some  minutes  before  Walter  and 
Sir  Robert  reached  the  spot,  and  during 
that  time  Clara  had  sunk  three  times,  and 
when  they  got  there  she  was  lost  entirely  to 
sight ;  but  all  was  well  now,and  she  was  safe. 

"  Did  you  not  fear  to  die  when  you  were 
thus  sinking  in  the  water,  Clara  ?"  asked 
Edith  of  her  one  day. 

"  No — I  had  no  thoughts  of  fear.  I  re 
member  to  have  thought  of  you,  Sir  Robert, 
and  Mrs.  Marlow." 

"  And  was  the  situation  painful  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  was  almost  pleasurable, 
and  seemed  like  going  to  sleep.  Perhaps, 
Edith,  it  would  have  been  quite  as  well  if  I 
had  gone  to  sleep  there  /"  said  Clara,  with  a 
deep  meaning. 

"  O,  say  not  so,  remember  how  dear  you 
are  to  us  all,  Clara,  and  strive  to  be  happy," 
replied  Edith. 

A  dark  suspicion  overspread  Edith's  mind 
as  she  thought  upon  the  matter,  that  perhaps 
Clara  had  purposely  cast  herself  from  the 
bank  at  the  time  of  her  having  so  nearly  lost 
her  life ;  but  she  gave  no  utterance  to  such  a 
thought,  not  even  to  Lord  Amidown  or  Sir 
Robert,  though  she  thought  of  the  subject  seri 
ously. 

But  we  must  now  leave  Haredale  and  the 
family  at  Sir  Robert's  cottage  for  other  scenes. 


CHAPTER    LV. 


THE   MONK    OF   GHERTSTEIN. 


High  minds,  of  native  pride  and  force, 
Most  deeply  feel  thy  pangs,  remorse : 
Fear  for  their  scourge  mean  villains  have ; 
Thou  art  the  torturer  of  the  brave. 


SCOTT. 


WE  must  turn  back  once  more  to  the  day 
on  which  the  jury  had  acquitted  Karl  Blasius 
of  the  charge  that  was  brought  against  him, 
of  attempting  Hardhead's  life,  in  the  manner 
already  described.  The  counsel  through 
whose  masterly  arrangement  and  argument 
he  had  been  enabled  to  obtain  such  a  favorable 
verdict,  did  not  stop  here  in  his  service  to  his 
client.  He  knew  very  well  that  the  authori 
ties  would  only  allow  him  to  pass  out  of  the 
court  house  before  they  would  arrest  him  on 
some  other  charge,  inasmuch  as  he  was  proven 
to  be  a  dangerous  person  to  be  at  large,  al 
though  so  successfully  cleared  from  the  charge 
that  had  been  brought  against  him. 

The  young  lawyer  therefore,  immediately 
whispered  to  Karl  that,  though  he  was  at  lib 
erty,  he  must  not  attempt  to  go  out  as  he  was, 
or  he  would  be  again  arrested  almost  imme 
diately.  But  lending  him  his  own  hat  and 
cloak,  he  led  him,  in  the  confusion  that  ensued 
upon  the  adjournment  of  the  court,  through 
the  private  door  of  the  hall,  and  mailing  an 
appointment  as  to  where  they  might  meet 
that  night,  he  sent  the  robber  away  in  safety, 
leaving  the  bailiff  and  the  police  who  had  been 


on  the  watch  for  the  prisoner,  quite  nonplussed 
as  to  how  he  had  escaped  them.     Thus 

"  Liberty  plucks  justice  by  the  nose." 

Karl  Blasius  avoided  all  his  former  places 
of  resort,  fully  realizing  that  he  was  sought 
by  the  police  in  every  probable  place,  and  that 
if  he  should  be  again  arrested  he  would  doubt 
less  lose  his  liberty  forever,  if  not  his  life. 
He  called  at  Sir  Robert's  house,  in  order  to 
repossess  himself  of  the  money  he  had  placed 
in  his  hands  for  safe  keeping,  but  finding  Sir 
Robert  out  of  the  city,  he  addressed  him  at 
Haredale,  at  the  very  date  of  his  return  from 
Sir  Charles  Marlow's.  Sir  Robert  immedi 
ately  enclosed  the  proper  order  to  transfer  the 
deposit  from  the  bankers  where  it  had  been 
left,  also  appointing  a  time  and  place  where 
he  would  meet  the  robber  immediately  on  his 
return  to  London. 

But  Karl  Blasius  found  that  London  was 
getting  to  be  a  dangerous  place  for  him.  He 
dared  not  remain  there  one  hour  longer  than 
was  absolutely  necessary  in  order  to  complete 
the  transfer  of  his  money,  and  this  he  tran 
sacted  through  his  late  legal  counsel,  paying 
the  young  lawyer  just  double  the  remunera- 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


303 


tion  that  Sir  Robert  had  promised  him,  viz., 
£2,000.  He  had  money  enough,  and  paid  it 
willingly.  This  done,  he  improved  the  first 
opportunity  to  leave  the  metropolis,  and  turn 
ed  his  steps  towards  the  scenes  of  his  native 
valley.  The  robber  was  weary  of  excitement, 
— indeed  he  was  almost  weary  of  life ;  his  late 
confinement  had  given  him  ample  time  for 
frequent  and  minute  reviewals  of  his  eventful 
life,  and  his  conscience  had  most  fearfully 
asserted  its  power. 

He  felt  that  it  only  remained  for  him  now 
to  seek  the  most  quiet  and  secret  abode,  where, 
after  dispensing  the  ill-gotten  wealth  that  he 
possessed  so  that  it  might  effect  the  best  good, 
he  could  sit  down  by  himself,  and  give  up  his 
hours  to  bitter,  galling  repentance.  He  felt 
that  he  had  need  enough  of  that. 

For  some  reason,  even  after  the  close  of  his 
pecuniary  arrangements  with  Sir  Robert 
Brompton,  the  robber  desired  to  see  him,  and 
yet  he  could  not  go  down  to  Haredale — it 
would  be  a  piece  of  foolhardiness  for  him  to 
do  so.  He  felt  that  he  would  be  almost  sure 
to  be  discovered  and  arrested,  if  he  attempted 
it.  In  this  mood,  he  resolved  to  commit  his 
business  to  paper,  and  having  done  this,  he 
sealed  and  carefully  addressed  it  to  Sir  Robert, 
but  still  hesitated  about  trusting  it  in  the 
mail.  At  last  an  idea  seemed  to  strike  him, 
and  he  determined  to  leave  the  document  with 
his  lawyer,  with  strict  injunctions  to  deliver  it 
to  no  one  save  Sir  Robert  himself. 

"  I  have  a  letter,"  he  said  to  the  lawyer, 
having  met  him  privately  at  his  office,  "which 
I  wish  to  get  safely  to  Sir  Robert  Brompton, 
and  as  he  is  out  of  town,  I  should  like  to  have 
you  engage  to  keep  it  for  me,  and  deliver  it  in 
person  when  he  shall  come  to  London." 

"  Why  not  send  it  down  to  Haredale  by  the 
mail  ?" 

"  I  fear  some  casualty  or  accident  whereby 
it  may  get  into  the  wrong  hands  or  be  lost." 

"  0,  no  fear  of  that :  does  it  contain  a  draft 
for  money  that  makes  it  so  important?" 

"  No,  not  that." 

"  It  is  safe  enough  then,  in  any  event,  so 
you  had  better  mail  it  for  his  country  house." 

"  It  will  not  answer  my  purpose  to  do  so, 
and  unless  you  will  engage  to  keep  it  for  him 
and  deliver  it  in  person  when  he  comes  to  Lon 
don,  I  must  go  down  to  Haredale  myself." 


"  Well,  if  you  are  so  decided  and  feel  so 
very  particular  about  it,  I  will  do  so." 

"  Thank  you.  I  do,  and  now  am  much  re 
lieved,  and  can  take  my  departure  at  once  from 
London." 

This  seemed  to  close  up  the  robber's  busi 
ness  in  the  metropolis,  and  he  walked  away 
from  the  office  of  his  counsel  with  a  freer  step 
than  he  had  before  done  for  months.  "A  weight 
seemed  to  be  off  his  mind,  and  all  guilty  as  he 
was,  he  appeared  to  feel  comparatively  easy 
that  his  every  step  now  would  bring  him. 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  great  object  and  pur 
pose  that  he  had  already  formed  for  repen 
tance.  As  he  passed  on,  it  was  evening, 
almost  pitchy  dark,  and  he  pressed  on  to  that 
part  of  the  town  where  his  humble  lodgings 
now  were,  when,  strange  chance  !  he  came  full 
upon  Hardhead.  It  was  near  a  street  lamp,  and 
he  knew  him  at  once !  His  first  impulse,  al 
most  a  resistless  one,  was  to  strike  him  dead 
with  the  dagger  that  was  already  clasped  in  his 
hand.  He  even  half  drew  it  and  followed  the 
unconscious  burglar  for  some  steps.  But  sud 
denly  stopping,  he  leaned  against  the  stone 
wall  of  the  house  where  he  stood,  and  said  to 
himself: 

"  Hold,  I  could  kill  him,  but  how  will  that 
agree  with  my  new  resolve  ?  Quick,  let  me 
decide  before  he  gets  out  of  sight."  And  as 
the  robber  thus  communed  with  himself,  he 
seemed  to  be  undetermined  whether  he  should 
follow  the  receding  form  of  the  burglar,  now 
just  discernible  through  the  darkness,  or  let 
him  depart  in  peace.  It  was  a  struggle  be 
tween  his  better  judgment  and  his  revengeful 
feelings  against  his  former  accomplice. 

His  better  feelings  and  a  resolve  of  a  more 
godly  life  prevailed  ;  and  the  burglar  went  on 
his  way  unharmed,  while  Karl  Blasius  turn 
ed  and  went  towards  his  lodgings,  with  a 
downcast  and  more  thoughtful  face. 

Now  he  came  into  St.  James  street,  and  saw 
the  glare  of  light  pour  forth  from  the  windows 
of  the  gaming  house  where  he  had  so  often 
played  with  fearful  dishonesty  of  purpose, 
where  he  had  so  nearly  ruined  Lord  Amidown 
and  where  that  startling  exposure  had  taken 
place,  the  secret  of  which  he  even  then  did 
not  understand.  He  now  crossed  over  the 
street  into  the  shadow  of  an  angle  in  the  build 
ings  opposite,  where  he  paused  for  a  few  min 
utes,  evidentlyrecalling  the  moments  of  excite 


304 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


ment  that  he  had  passed  there,  and  with  a 
sickening  and  scornful  curl  of  his  lip  he  pass 
ed  on  once  more,  still  wrapped  in  the  reflec 
tions  that  these  subjects  gave  rise  to  in  his 
mind.  He  saw  how  much  evil  he  had  done 
now,  it  came  up  before  him  with  terrible  force, 
and  he  almost  groaned  with  the  weight.  His 
victims,  like  Banquo's  ghost,  came  up  before 
him  at  every  point,  and  as  Macbeth  saw  the 
spirits  of  those  whom  he  had  murdered  pass 
in  review  on  the  surface  of  the  magic  mirror, 
so  Karl  Blasius  now  reviewed  his  victims. 

Leaving  the  robber  to  his  reflections,  let  us 
pass  over  a  period  of  months  and  take  the  read 
er  to  another  land. 

It  was  but  a  few  months  subsequent  to  the 
scene  which  we  have  described,  when  an 
humble  traveller  stopped  at  the  little  ancient 
inn  of  Mprentz.  He  was  way-worn  and 
weary,  and  had  evidently  come  a  long  way 
on  foot.  His  habiliments  were  coarse  and  his 
form  not  a  little  bent,  while  the  expression  of 
his  countenance  seemed  to  show  its  possessor 
to  have  tasted  deeply  of  the  bitterest  cup  of 
fortune.  He  looked  about  him  with  an  eye 
that  at  times  was  lit  up  with  vivid  interest,  and 
then  as  though  the  scene  had  little  joy  for 
him. 

"  Welcome,"  said  the  host,  a  little  gray  old 
man.  "  Wilt  come  in  and  refresh  thyself, 
friend  ?" 

"  What  is  the  name  of  thy  inn  ?" 

'•  It  is  called  the  Postilion." 

"  0,  I  remember." 

"  You  remember  it?" 

"  No,  that  is  I  saw  the  sign  just  now." 

"  Ah,  will  you  walk  in  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  good  man,  1  have  much  need 
of  rest  and  food,  I  will  come  in  for  a  while." 

After  his  partaking  of  a  little  plain  bread, 
and  drinking  a.  glass  of  cheap  wine,  the  host 
asked  him  from  whence  he  came,  and  tried, 
as  was  his  wont,  to  gain  what  news  he  could 
from  the  stranger  by  way  of  gossip. 

"  Do  you  go  on  to-night,  or  will  you  tarry 
until  the  morrow?"  asked  the  host  of  the 
stranger. 

"  I  must  go  on  to-night.  I  suppose  Ae  roads 
are  safe  in  this  neighborhood — landlord  ?" 

"  O  yes,  of  late  years,  there  is  rarely  any 
trouble  on  the  roads,  but  the  bold  Karl  Blasius 
used  years  ago  to  keep  the  whole  neighbor-^ 

r 


hood  for  leagues  about  here  even  to  the  very 
gates  of  Brontz,  in  fear." 

"  He, was  beheaded,  I  suppose?"  remarked 
the  stranger,  carelessly,  while  he  seemed  to 
examine  the  view  presented  from  the  door. 

"  No,  he  was  condemned  to  be,  but  escaped 
by  some  curious  means  of  his  own  construc 
tion.  It  is  many  years  since  that,  but  I  be 
lieve  he  was  drowned  or  shot  while  trying  to 
get  away." 

"  His  band  is  now  all  dispersed,  I  suppose,  of 
course  ?" 

"  0,  yes,  they  had  a  cave  not  far  from  here 
in  a  deep  wood,  where  the  regular  troops  rout 
ed  them  and  took  a  large  number  prisoners — 
among  the  rest,  Karl  himself,  and  carried  them 
all  to  Armantz." 

"  A  set  of  cutthroats  that  the  country  was 
glad  to  get  rid  of,  I  suppose  ?"  said  the  stran 
ger,  indifferently. 

"  Not  exactly  so.  The  fact  was,  Karl  Bla 
sius  used  to  be  very  good  to  the  peasantry, 
who  loved  him." 

"  O,the  peasantry  then  regretted,  and  spoke 
well  of  him,"  said  the  stranger,  with  evident 
interest  depicted  in  his  face. 

"  Yes,  and  it  was  the  same  with  his  father, 
the  far-famed  Sehinderhames.  Both  have 
been  in  my  time." 

"Indeed,  did  you  know  him?"  asked  the 
stranger,  watching  the  landlord  with  an  ear 
nest  eye. 

"  Well,  and  might  have  known  his  son,  but 
I  was  more  closely  watched  by  the  authorities, 
and  I  stayed  at  home." 

The  traveller  paid  his  moderate  fee,  pressed 
the  host's  hand  with  an  humble  benediction, 
and  departed.  Little  did  the  landlord  of  the 
old  inn  think  that  he  had  just  been  talking  with 
the  very  Karl  Blasius,  who,  a  score  and  more 
of  years  gone  by,  had  been  the  virtual  master 
of  that  part  of  the  valley  of  the  Ehine.  The 
wanderer  had  gotten  thus  far  on  his  return  to 
that  home  which  was,  in  fact,  no  home  to 
him.  Yet  he  had  longed  once  more  to  look 
upon  the  old  familiar  spots  where  so  many 
years  of  his  early  life  had  been  passed,  and 
where  he  had  done  so  much  good,  and,  alas  ! 
so  much  evil,  the  latter  fearfully  outweighing 
the  former,  if  indeed  it  did  not  blot  it  out  al 
together. 

.The  robber  wandered  on,  and  revisited  those 
,  scenes  so  powerfully  impressed  upon  his  mem- 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


305 


ory,  recalling  each  event  that  had  nemonized 
this  or  that  spot  upon  his  mind.  He  wander 
ed  even  in  the  streets  of  Bronts,  without  any 
fear  of  discovery.  He  was  so  much  changed, 
and  such  a  lapse  of  years  had  transpired  since 
he  was  there,  that  he  felt  not  the  least  alarm. 
He  visited  the  castle  of  Ghertstein  again, 
where  he  had  passed  so  many  delightful  hours, 
and  where  he  had  sought  the  hand  of  the  fair 
Lady  Gustine.  All  was  a  ruin  now ;  the  old 
lord  was  bankrupt,  and  Sir  Robert  had  per 
mitted  it  to  go  to  decay  without  scarce  a 
thought  of  the  fact  that  it  had  been  the  home 
of  his  dearly  loved  wife,  and  her  ancestors. 

A  few  years  of  civil  war  and  devastation 
had  left  the  place  a  pile  of  ruins. 

"  Where  her  high  steeples  whilom  used  to  stand, 
On  which  the  lordly  falcon  wont  to  tower, 

There  now  is  but  a  heap  of  lime  and  sand, 
For  the  screech-owl  to  build  her  baleful  bower." 

Still  actuated,  even  at  this  remote  period, 
in  no  slight  degree  by  his  almost  maddened 
passion  for  the  Lady  Gustine,  the  rohber  re 
solved  that  these  ruins  should  be  his  future 
home,  and  that  he  would  here  live  among  the 
bats  and  owls,  a  creature  no  less  out  of  the 
pale  of  human  society  than  they  were.  The 
very  hooting  of  the  ghostly  owls  seemed  in  ac 
cordance  with  his  feelings,  and  the  darting 
and  shot-like  rustling  of  the  bats'  wings,  was 
music  to  him  now.  These  things  were  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  sad  music  of  his  own  up 
braiding  conscience.  Gentle  sympathy  from 
his  own  species  would  have  been  bitterness  to 
him ;  the  voice  of  kindness,  gall  itself.  No, 
no,  he  was  most  at  home  here. 
20 


"  The  moss  his  bed,  the  care  his  humble  cell, 
His  food  the  fruits,  his  drinks  the  crystal  well." 

Ruins  were  too  many,  and  hermits  too  fre 
quent  in  the  valley  of  the  Rhine,  for  Karl 
Blasius,  disguised  as  he  was  by  the  ruthless 
hand  of  time,  to  fear  being  disturbed  or  dis 
covered.  The  ruins  were  somewhat  disolated, 
forming  the  crowning  point  of  a  lofty  and 
rocky  promontory  that  jutted  into  the  Rhine, 
and  here  he  slept  and  prayed,  for  he  was 
thoroughly  awakened  now  to  his  crimes  and 
the  power  of  conscience.  The  dark  man  who 
had  once  kept  that  valley  in  awe  by  his  deeds 
of  daring,  now  knelt  at  the  vesper  hour,  and 
smote  his  hreast  before  high  Heaven,  a  con 
trite,  hroken-hearted  man.  0,' fearful  close  of 
a  fearful  career. 

At  last,  when  he  had  been  many  times  seen, 
for  this  picture  is  not  of  a  day,  but  of  rolling 
years,  those  who  came  to  know  him  casually, 
called  him  the  Monk  of  Ghertstein,  and  some 
said  that  he  either  worked  miracles  orjiad  the 
philosopher's  stone,  for  he  had  done  such 
noble  deeds  of  charity,  rescuing  at  times 
whole  families  from  ruin,  and  casting  peace 
broadcast  about  many  an  humble  fireside,  that 
he  was  deemed  to  possess  more  than  human 
power.  But  he  mingled  not  at  all  with  socie 
ty  ;  sometimes  in  disguise  he  was  said  to  visit 
the  .town,  and  learn  where  and  how  he  could 
best  do  good,  and  it  was  not  long  after  that, 
the  deed  was  done,  often  so  singularly  as  to 
leave  it  in  doubt  as  to  who  had  been  the  lib 
erator  of  necessity.  But  the  neighbors  always 
on  such  occasions  whispered  the  name  of  the 
Monk  of  Ghertstein ! 


CHAPTER   LVI. 


A    LAPSE    OF    TEN    YEARS. 


O,  Time !  thou  beautifier  of  the  dead — 
And  owner  of  the  ruin — comforter 

A.nd  only  healer  when  the  heart  hath  bled — 
Time !  the  corrector  when  our  judgments  err, 
The  test  of  truth,  love, — sole  philosopher  ! 


BYRON. 


TEN  years  have  passed  since  the  period  de 
signated  in  the  close  of  the  last  chapter. — 
How  fraught  with  incident  were  they  to  the 
characters  of  our  story,  how  full  of  develop 
ment  in  the  life-history  of  each  and  all  of 
those  to  whom  we  have  introduced  the  leader 
of  these  pages.  On  reviewing  their  history 
after  such  a  lapse  of  time,  we  feel  almost  at  a 
loss  where  to  begin,  there  has  transpired  so 
much  of  joy  and  quiet  peace  in  the  various 
circles  formed  by  each,  there  have  occurred  so 
many  events  that  to  them  were  fraught  with 
so  much  of  interest,  and  so  important  in  their 
results,  that  we  hardiy  know  where  to  resume 
the  tangled  thread. 

•  The  consummation  of  the  kind-hearted  Mrs. 
Marlow's  happiness  by  the  return  of  Francis, 
now  General  Marlow,  seemed  to  act  like  a 
charm  upon  all  the  rest,  for  no  sooner  did  the 
general  declare  that  they  should  be  united  in 
the  bonds  of  matrimony  at  the  little  church  of 
Ilaredale,  by  Rev.  Mr.  Brandon,  than  Walter 
and  Lord  Amidown  intimated  that  they  should 
be  most  happy  to  follow  suit,  and  before  a 
month  had  elapsed  after  the  marriage  of  Ed 
ward  Manley  and  Fanny  Hardway,  the  little 
church  at  Haredale  witnessed  the  union  of  the 
three  couples. 


As  time  progressed,  new  faces  came  upon 
the  scene,  and  joyous  little  children  knelt  by 
the  mother's  knee  to  repeat  their  nightly  pray 
er,  while  the  proud  father  listened  and  was 
happy. 

Walter  Manning  and  his  wife,  the  Lady 
Josephine,  still  graced  those  aristocratic  circles 
to  which  she  was  born,  and  both  seemed  best 
to  enjoy  this  manner  of  life.  Her  taste,  as  we 
have  seen,  was  formed  like  that  of  the  gen 
tle,  but  unhappy  Lydia  Gray ;  yet  it  seemed 
quickly  to  mould  itself  to  city  life  after  she 
had  once  tasted  its  dissipations  and  its  engag 
ing  attractions,  and  now  these  scenes  and 
minglings  had  become  to  her  a  second  nature, 
their  excitement  was  apparently  necessary  to 
her  very  being.  Walter  feeling  the  utmost 
confidence  in  her  tr.uth  and  honesty  of  purpose, 
felt  no  regret  at  her  mingling  thus  with  the 
gay  world,  and  became  himself  in  part  a  de 
votee  of  this  style  and  fashion,  until  domestic 
ties  in  the  form  of  lovely  children,  drew 
their  hearts  and  attentions  more  within  the 
home  circle,where  both  became  if  possible  hap 
pier  than  before. 

Edith  and  Lord  Amidown  were  different; 
both  had  seen  enough  of  city  life;  besides  Lord 
Amidown  took  the  hue  of  his  desires  and 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


30T 


wishes  from  her  he  loved  so  dearly — as  the 
chameleon  takes  its  color  from  that  which  it 
rests  upon — and  her  heart  was  &o  made  for  af 
fection, hergentlespiritloved  retirement  so  well, 
that  she  chose  a  happy  country  home,  where 
both  -  eemed  blessed,  and  where, 

"  With  secret  course  which  no  loud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy." 

A  noble  toy  and  gentle  girl  had  been  sent 
them  by  Providence  to  engage  their  hearts 
still  more,  and  render  happy  their  domestic 
hearth.  Walter — named  after  him  who  had 
been  a  brother  to  its  mother — was  indeed  a 
noble  child,  with  all  the  elegance  of  manner 
and  fine  manly  characteristics  of  his  father, 
and  the  beauty  of  his  mother,  while  little  Cla 
ra — named  after  her  whom  Edith  had  loved 
so  well,  and  with  whom  she  had  passed 
through  so  many  trials — was  such  a  dear,  gen 
tle,  angelic  flower,  that  Sir  Robert  seemed  al 
most  to  worship  her. 

But  unalloyed  happiness  is  not  the  lot  of 
mortals,  and  after  twelve  years  of  sweet  com 
panionship  with  her  husband,  a  slow  fever 
threw  him  into  a  decline,  of  which  he  died. 
The  blow  was  less  severe  than  it  would  have 
been  had  a  sudden  illness  deprived  Edith  of 
her  husband's  society  ;  but  they  were  all  pre 
pared  by  the  slow  consumptive  symptoms  that, 
not  unlike  the  gradual  burning  out  of  a  lamp, 
at  last  having  exhausted  the  vital  tide,  gently 
went  out.  And  thus  Lord  Amidown  quietly 
resigned  his  life,  with  a  joyous  hope  to  meet 
his  loved  and  cherished  ones  again  in  heaven. 
Sweet  solace  for  the  dying! 

Now  completely  bound  up  in  her  lovely 
children,  who  repaid  her  fond  and  jealous  care 
with  the  tenderest  affection,  Edith  was  calm 
and  even  happy.  It  was  now  that  Clara's 
philosophy,  or  rather  religion,  became  so  im 
portant  a  prop  to  Edith  ;  they  were  much,  al 
most  constantly  together,  as  of  yore,  and  so  ear 
nestly  did  Clara  labor  for  the  happiness  of  her 
dear  friend,  that  her  widowed  heart  found 
such  rich  promise  and  hope  as  once  more  to 
be  cheerful  and  content. 

"  Ah  !  dear,  dear  Clara,  who  could  have 
foreseen  this,  that  j  ou  to  whom  I  once  acted 
the  Christian  teacher's  part,  should  now  con 
sole  me  when  my  affliction  seemed  harder 
than  -I  could  bear  ?" 

"  It  is  only  too  much  joy  to  think  that  I  have 
been  reserved  for  this  good  to  you,  Edith,  for 


how  much  am  I  indebted  to  you  for  everything, 
even  the  dear  kind  friendship  of  Sir  Robert 
himself." 

"  No,  no,  Clara,  there  you  are  wrong;  it  is 
for  yourself  alone  that  Sir  Robert  loves  yon,, 
and  he  was  from  the  very  first  drawn  to  yon,, 
not  by  any  connection  with  me  further  than  a 
mere  introduction,  but  by  the  native  and  ever 
present  goodness  of  your  heart,  and  the  kind 
ness  of  your  disposition.  Nay,  you  need  not 
shake  your  head  thus  incredulously,  for  he 
has  himself  often  told  me  these  very  words 
that  I  repeat  to  you." 

"  Has  he  ?"  asked  Clara,  with  interest,  "  ah, 
well,  it  is  very,  very  pleasant  to  be  loved,  even 
by  strangers" 

"  Strangers,  Clara !" 

"  That  if,  I  don't  exactly  mean  that,  but  by 
those  not  attached  to  us  by  the  ties  of  blood^ 
she  answered. 

"  No  ties  of  blood  ever  could  render  yoo 
more  dear  to  us  than  you  are  already,  dear 
Clara,"  replied  her  friend,  kissing  her,  and 
holding  little  Clara  forward  also  to  imprint  a 
kiss  upon  the  lips  of  its  namesake, 

"  How  sweet  and  innocent  she  looks, 
Edith,"  said  Clara,  regarding  the  child  intent 
ly.  "  0,  may  God  spare  her  the  bitter  experi 
ence  of  her  whose  name  she  bears." 

"  If  heaven  will  but  endow  it  with  a  saul&s 
pure  as  thine,  Clara,  I  shall  be  content,  believe 
me.  But  like  you,  I  have  often  prayed  that  she 
may  never  know  the  fearful  experience  even 
of  her  own  mother." 

"  Dear  aunt,"  for  thus  the  child  called  hen, 
"  what  makes  you  cry  ?"  said  the  little  girl, 
struggling  to  leave  her  mother  and  get  into 
Clara's  lap,  and  then  laying  her  soft  flaxen 
curls  and  her  little  throbbing  temples  in  Cla 
ra's  neck.  The  child  loved  her  dearly,  scarce 
ly  less  than  she  did  her  mother,  and  so  with 
Walter,  whose  lips  quivered  as  he  saw  the 
tears  on  Clara's  cheek,  and  with  a  struggle  at 
a  manly  tone,  he  begged  her  to  come  and  ride 
with  him,  as  the  horses  had  just  been  brought 
to  the  door. 

"  Go,  Clara,  go.  The  air  is  delightful  this 
afternoon,  and  will  revive  you.  Come,  Wal 
ter  and  Clara  shall  both  go  with  you,  and 
drive  over  to  Haredale, where  you  so  like  to  go.1' 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Clara,  sadly,  and  turn 
ing  to  the  carriage  with  the  children,  she  drove 
away  towards  Haredale. 


308 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


This  was  Clara's  position  now  ;  she  seemed 
to  have  arrived  only  to  the  perfection  and 
prime  of  her  beauty,  though  a  slight  consump 
tive  tendency  that  lingered  about  her  constitu 
tion  not  unfrequently  robbed  her  cheek  in  part 
of  its  bloom.  She  was  still  peerless  in  beau 
ty,  and  no  one  who  approached  her,  but  was 
forced  to  acknowledge  the  power  of  her  charms. 
In  these  twelve  years  past,  more  than  one  no 
ble  lord  had  laid  his  heart  at  her  feet,  but  all 
were  refused,  though  with  a  gentle  delicacy 
and  tact  that  only  left  them  still  more  deeply 
her  admirers  than  they  had  been  before. 

"  Such  around  her  shone 
The  nameless  charms  unmarked  by  her  alone, 
The  light  of  love,  the  purity  of  grace, 
The  mind,  the  music  breathing  from  her  face, 
The  heart,  whose  softness  harmonized  the  whole 
And,  O,  that  eye  was  in  itself  a  soul !" 

General  and  Mrs.  Marlow  were  at  Marlow 
House,  in  the  sweet  enjoyment  of  domestic 
happiness.  Sir  Charles  had  deceased  these 
five  years  since,  leaving  all  his  broad  domains 
to  that  younger  brother  who  had  gone  to  India 
through  his  unkindness  an  humble  cadet,  but 
who  had  returned  crowned  with  honor,  and  as 
a  general.  No  happier  picture  of  pure  domes 
tic  bliss  could  be  drawn  than  that  now  reign 
ing  at  Marlow  House.  The  warmest  and 
most  delightful  intimacy  was  kept  up  between 
Sir  Robert  and  his  family,  and  their  early  and 
happy  associations  were  unforgotten. 

"  I  understand,  Emma,"  said  General  Mar- 
low,  "  that  Sir  Robert  and  Clara  are  about  to 
go  to  Italy.  Her  health  of  late  has  seemed 
to  be  failing,  and  the  physicians  prescribe 
milder  air  and  sunnier  skies." 

"  I  am  glad  she  is  going,"  replied  his  wife. 
"  I  have  long  hoped  that  she  would  try,  if  only 
for  the  briefest  period,  a  milder  atmosphere. — 
Clara  has  grown  pale  and  thinner,  I  have  no 
ticed  of  late." 

"  She  is  a  very  pure-hearted  and  noble  girl," 
said  General  Marlow ;  "  no  wonder  Sir  Rob 
ert  loves  her  so  well." 

"  She  is  indeed  pure-hearted — no  one  can 
testify  to  that  more  truthfully  than  I.  From 
the  first  day  that  we  removed  to  Haredale 
from  Sir  Robert's  town  residence,  Clara  made 
a  study  of  pure  and  undefiled  religion,  and  if 
any  human  being  has  a  heart  entirely  baptiz 
ed  in  holiness,  it  does  seem  to  me  that  Clara 
is  its  possessor." 


"  You  are  an  enthusiast,  Emma,  but  I  think 
you  speak  only  the  truth  in  this  case,"  he  an 
swered. 

"If  you  knew  her  as  well  as  I  do,  you 
would  not  think  me  unduly  prejudiced  in  her 
favor.  I  was  with  her  almost  constantly  from 
the  hour  when  she  came  to  Sir  Robert's,  until 
we  were  married  and  came  here,  and  have 
watched  her  progress  as  closely  as  though  she 
had  been  my  own  child." 

"I  remember  the  singular  story  which  you 
told  me  about  her  and  Edith,"  he  replied. — 
"  It  has  seemed  strange  to  me  that  she  has 
never  married  ;  she  might  have  allied  herself 
to  some  of  the  finest  men  in  London,  persons 
rich  not  only  in  purse,  but  well  endowed  with 
intellect." 

Mrs.  Marlow  made  no  answer,  but  bending 
over  her  little  daughter,  adjusted  her  flowing 
curls  with  busy  fingers,  while  her  thoughts 
were  no  less  busily  employed  in  another  direc 
tion.  It  had  not  long  puzzled  Mrs.  Marlow, 
with  her  affectionate  assiduity  and  woman 
discernment,  to  read  the  very  soul  within 
Clara's  breast,  and  her  secret  motives,  though 
sacred,  were  all  known  to  her. 

"  Did  Clara  often  refer  to  her  early  life 
and  associations  ?"  asked  the  general,  after  re 
garding  his  wife  in  silence  for  a  moment,  dur 
ing  which  a  shade  of  the  true  feelings  of  Cla 
ra's  breast  crossed  his  mind,  and  which  he 
seemed  to  read  in  the  silence  and  manner  of 
Mrs.  Marlow. 

"  Only  at  times,  to  say  that  no  doubt, 
as  far  as  her  present  peace  of  mind  was  con 
cerned,  she  would  have  been  happier  had  she 
been  left  in  the  obscurity  where  Edith  first 
met  her." 

"  She  was  too  sensitive  to  mingle  with  this 
coarse  world,"  replied  the  general,  "  and  should 
have  rather  been  born  to  rank  and  station,  or 
have  remained  in  obscurity.  Doubtless,  the 
polishing  of  her  native  intellect  by  study  and 
gentle  associations,  was  the  sacrificing  of  her 
peace  of  mind  in  this  life." 

"  I  have  long  realized  that  this  is  the  truth 
in  relation  to  her." 

"  How  was  that  matter  settled  between  her 
and  Earnest  Brandon  ?"  asked  her  husband. 
"  0,  time  healed  this  second  disappointment 
of  the  curate's." 

"  Second  disappointment  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  remember  the  story  I  told  you 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


309 


about  Lydia  Gray,  Lady  Josephine's  early 
companion,  and  who  sacrificed  her  own  life  to 
her  sense  of  honor  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  remember." 

"  Some  four  years  I  believe  after  we  left 
Haredale,  Mr.  Brandon  was  at  last  married." 

"  You  may  well  say  at  last,"  repeated  her 
husband,  laughing.  "  It  was  the  third  choice." 

"  That  is  nothing  extraordinary  ;  we  have 
another  instance  in  our  immediate  circle,"  she 
answered. 

"  Indeed ;  and  who  pray  do  you  refer  to  ? — 
Not  Lord  Amidown." 

"  No,  but  Walter." 

"  Was  his  a  third  choice  ?" 

"  Certainly.  At  first  he  was  perfectly  de 
voted  to  Edith,  afterwards  as  much  so  to 
Clara,  and  finally  fell  desperately  in  love  with 
Lady  Josephine — actually  the  third  choice." 

"  Did  not  Edith  return  his  first  regard," 
asked  the  general,  not  a  little  interested. 

"  Only  as  a  sister,  but  she  thought  much  of 
Walter  for  all  that." 

"  And  how  was  it  with  Clara  ?" 

"  Clara  loved  him,  though  she  never  ac 
knowledged  it  to  any  human  being.  It  was 
her  first  and  last  love,  but  Walter  received  her 
refusal,  and  not  long  after  sought  consolation, 
as  I  have  said,  with  his  present  wife." 

"  Did  not  Walter  realize  that  she  loved 
him  ?" 

"  I  think  not ;  for  his  sake  I  could  see  that 
she  assumed  a  manner  and  tone  that  were 
foreign  to  her  heart.  She  was  too  conscien 
tious  to  give  him  hope  that  she  could  never 
honestly  encourage." 

"  Noble  girl,"  said  the  general,  thoughtful. 


ly.     "  And  did  Edith  fully  realize  her  friend's 
situation  ?" 

"  Hardly,  for  then  her  unhappy  trouble 
with  Lord  Amidown  had  just  occurred,  and 
her  own  heart  was  bleeding  too  sorely  to  be 
strongly  impressed  with  even  Clara's  grief." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  now  how  complicated 
were  the  troubles  of  Sir  .Robert's  household  at 
that  period." 

^  "  All  seemed  to  come  together,  and  all  were 
very  unhappy." 

"  Do  you  think  Clara  still  loves  Walter  ?" 
asked  the  general. 

"  No,  I  can  hardly  say  that,  because  1  con 
sider  that  the  train  of  thought  in  which  she 
has  so  long  indulged  has  gradually  weaned 
her  from  all  such  affections,  but  yet  when  we 
first  went  down  to  Haredale  I  used  to  think 
that  this  love  was  still  cherished  in  her  breast, 
though  I  might  have  been  mistaken." 

"  Poor  child  of  fortune,"  said  the  sympathiz 
ing  general. 

Both  paused,  thoughtfully  reviewing  the 
checkered  scenes  of  Clara's  life,  and  the  inci 
dents  that  had  connected  them  all  together. — 
It  was  a  singular  train  of  thought,  a  compli 
cated  image  of  life. 

Their  little  daughter  had  sunk  down  upon 
an  ottoman,  and  now  lay  fast  asleep,  present 
ing  a  sweet  picture  of  innocent  beauty,  Mrs. 
Marlow  and  her  husband  looked  first  upon  the 
child,  and  then  upon  each  other  with  an  ex 
pression  of  most  ineffable  happiness  beaming 
from  their  eyes.  Could  the  lot  of  the  kind- 
hearted  and  loving  Mrs.  Marlow  be  more  at 
peace  ?  Was  she  not  very,  very  happy  ? 


CHAPTER    L  VII 


THE  DEPARTURE. 


Let's  not  unman  each  other — part  at  once  ; 
All  farewells  should  be  sudden,  when  forever, 
Else  they  make  an  eternity  of  moments, 
And  clog  the  last  sad  sands  of  life  with  tears. 


BYRON. 


IT  was  just  twelve  years  from  the  period 
when  Karl  Blaeius  was  confined  in  Newgate, 
as  we  have  described,  that  two  persons,  a  male 
and  female,  were  executed  in  a  like  manner 
with  the  scene  before  referred  to.  These  two 
persons  were  Hardhead  and  Mother  Giles. — 
After  the  disappearance  of  Lancewood,  as  they 
called  the  robber,  Hardhead  and  herself  form 
ed  a  copartnership  for  doing  business  together, 
and  the  tap-room  became  the  scene  of  more 
sin  and  wickedness  than  ever  before,  until  a 
bold  and  daring  murder  committed  there  was 
fairly  traced  to  them,  and  for  this,  having  been 
duly  tried,  they  were  hung  together  in  New 
gate. 

The  little  Frenchman,  whom  they  had  call 
ed  the  Chevalier,  took  the  tap-room  and  kept 
it  from  that  time  until  his  death,  but  it  was 
t  never  the  riotous  place  that  it  had  been  under 
Mother  Giles. 

It  was  on  that  very  day  that  Hardhead  and 
the  woman  were  executed,  that  Clara  and  Sir 
Robert  Brompton  started  for  the  genial  skies 
and  balmy  atmosphere  of  Italy.  As  time  pro 
gressed  they  had  been  more  and  more  thrown 
upon  each  other's  society  for  amusement,  and 
several  times  Clara  had  nursed  by  the  sickbed 
of  Sir  Robert  when  he  was  suffering  under 
protracted  illness,  much  endearing  herself  to 
him  by  her  self-sacrificing  kindness  and  con 


stant  desire  to  serve  him.  Sir  Robert's  old 
desire  would  sometimes  come  over  him,  and 
he  would  wish  at  heart  that  he  could  know  if 
he  was  beloved  even  by  Clara  for  himself 
alone,  and  not  from  mere  gratitude. 

"  Clara,"  said  he,  '•  you  have  been  very  af 
fectionate  to  me,  and  since  I  have  lost  Edith, 
you  have  seemed  to  more  than  fill  her  place 
in  my  heart." 

"  Dear  Sir  Robert,  I  could  not  love  an  own 
father  better  than  I  love  you,"  said  she,  truth 
fully,  as  she  parted  the  locks,  now  frosted  with 
gray,  from  his  forehead. 

She  looked  fondly  upon  him  as  she  did  so, 
and  she  remembered  that  thus  had  he  done  to 
her  when  they  first  met,  and  while  he  promis 
ed  her  future  protection.  How  faithfully  he 
had  kept  that  promise  ?  How  mu<  h  trouble 
she  had  been  in  reality  to  him,  and  yet  how 
cheerfully  he  had  humored  her  every  whim  ? 
How  liberally  and  how  prince-like  had  he 
poured  forth  his  wealth  for  her,  and  above  all, 
how  kind  and  affectionate  had  he  ever  seemed 
to  her  who  had  no  right  to  his  regard  or  care  ? 
Clara  thought  of  all  this  as  she  parted  Sir 
Robert's  hair  so  gently  from  his  forehead,  and 
looked  affectionately  into  his  eyes. 

We  have  more  than  once  alluded  to  Clara's 
eyes,  so  peculiar  and  so  beautiful.  Sir  Robert 
loved  to  gaze  at  them,  they  were  so  like 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


311 


Edith's,  and  hers  were  so  much  like  the 
strangely  winning  and  fascinating  ones  of 
her  mother,  the  Lady  Gustine.  A  resem 
blance  which  had  so  singularly  affected  the 
robber  in  relation  to  them  both,  years  before.  Sir 
Robert  could  look  into  their  deep,  and  slightly 
saddened  depths,  and  fancy  himself  once  more 
beside  her  whom  he  had  so  tenderly  loved,  yet 
so  unreasonably  suspected.  Her  memory  had 
ever  been  fondly  cherished  by  him,  and  was 
still  revered  most  tenderly.  He  often  told 
Clara  of  her  surpassing  beauty  and  excel 
lence,  her  childlike  vivacity  and  cheerftilness, 
until  she  seemed  to  know  Sir  Robert's  wife 
almost  as  well  as  though  she  had  indeed  seen 
and  been  intimate  with  her.  And  then  the 
enthusiasm  with  which  Sir  Robert  described 
her,  became  contagious,  and  Clara  loved  to 
listen  to,  as  well  as  her  patron  did  to  relate, 
the  many  and  often  repeated  excellencies  of 
the  beautiful  Lady  Gustine. 

"  It  was  so  unfortunate,"  said  Sir  Robert, 
perhaps  for  the  thousandth  time,  "  that  we 
never  had  her  portrait  painted  ;  but  there  was 
one  of  her  in  her  father's  possession,  which, 
though  I  have  often  tried  through  others  to 
find,  since  the  castle  was  deserted,  yet  I  never 
have  yet  heard  from.  Perhaps  in  our  visit 
I  may  through  my  own  exertions  prove  more 
successful." 

"I  hope  so,  Sir  Robert ;  it  would  be  such  a 
source  of  satisfaction  to  you  to  possess  it." 

"  I  thought  when  we  had  yours  and  Edith's 
painted,  that  as  she  was  about  the  same  age 
when  hers  was  taken  as  Edith  was,  that  we 
should  thus  get  a  good  picture  of  her,  but  I 
was  disappointed  ;  it  did  not  call  up  my  mem 
ory  as  I  had  expected  it  might  do." 

"  Let  us  hope  to  find  the  original,  Sir  Rob 
ert,  and  that  will  be  a  prize  for  you  indeed." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  spare  neither  time  nor  labor 
to  reclaim  it,  and  it  will  be  a  satisfaction  to 
have  you  see  a  faithful  representation  of  one 
who  has  so  often  been  the  theme  of  our  con 
versation.  I  can  well  remember  how  often  it 
has  challenged  my  admiration  from  its  won 
derful  likeness  to  her,  and  how  her  fond  fath 
er  said  when  we  left  him  for  England,  that 
he  should  keep  it  to  have  her  loved  features 
ever  berore  him." 

"  I  feel  much  curiosity  to  behold  the  picture 
of  one  so  lovely  in  every  respect  as  she  must 
have  been.  I  think  I  should  love  it  almost  as 


though  it  were  human,  after  what  you  have 
told  me." 

Sir  Robert  smiled  with  inward  pleasure  at 
this  remark,  but  made  no  answer  to  Clara. 

Clara  and  Sir  Robert,  when  they  started  for 
Italy,  had  left  Edith  contented  and  happy  with 
her  children  at  their  country  seat.  The  wound 
that  her  heart  had  received  in  the  loss  of  Lord 
Amidown  was  nearly  healed,  that  is  to  say,  so 
far  as  the  immediate  grief  was  concerned,  and 
she  became  so  much  absorbed  in  rearing  and 
overseeing  the  education  of  her  two  children, 
that  she  had  but  little  time  for  grief  even  had 
she  been  disposed  to  indulge  in  it.  Indeed 
having  become  settled  in  life,  and  having  also 
a  large  experience  of  its  ills  and  crosses  as  well 
as  its  success  and  brighter  spots,  she  was  con 
tent  and  happy  to  fill  what  seemed  to  her  to 
be  her  allotted  sphere,  while  the  sweet  hope 
often  recurred  to  her  that  in  the  end  all  would 
meet  again  in  heaven. 

The  children  whom  she  loved  so  dearly,  in 
herited  her  own  remarkable  beauty,  and 
though  she  could  not  be  blind  to  the  advantage 
of  this,  yet  she  watched  with  far  more  jealous 
pride  and  satisfaction  their  mental  develop 
ments,  which  gave  rich. promise  of  a  golden 
harvest. 

"  Dear  Aunt  Clara,"  said  Walter,  as  he  was 
bidding  her  and  Sir  Robert  good  by,  "  I  could 
almost  as  well  spare  mama  as  you  ;  indeed  I 
love  you  very  dearly." 

Clara  pressed  her  lips  to  the  boy's  forehead 
but  could  not  speak,  her  heart  was  too  full. 
"  Every  one  seems  so  kind,  so  dear  and  so  gen 
tle  to  me,  why,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "^why 
does  this  sadness  hang  about  my  heart  ?"  Kiss 
ing  little  Clara  a  dozen  times  and  quieting  the 
child's  sobs  at  parting  with  her  by  ample  pro 
mises  of  soon  returning  to  see  her  again,  the 
whole  soon  separated  and  Clara  and  Edith 
with  a  long  embrace,  bade  each  other  farewell. 

"  I  know  not  why  I  dread  so  much  to  have 
you  leave  us,"  said  the  latter,  "  some  strange 
weight  oppresses  me  while  I  think  upon  it,  and 
I  dreamed  last  night  strange  dreams,  all  about 
you." 

"  0,  this  is  but  fancy,  dear  Edith,  the  doctor 
is  certain  that  I  shall  be  better  for  the  jour 
ney." 

"  God  grant  it  may  be  so,  Clara,"  answered 
her  adopted  sister,  looking  sadly  into  her  pale 
face. 


312 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


"  But  if  I  should  never  return,  Edith,"  she 
whispered  with  an  earnest  but  quiet  mien,  "  I 
hope  you  will  think  kindly  of  me,  and  some 
times  recall  the  happy  hours  we  have  passed 
together." 

"  Nay  Clara,  talk  not  thus,  you  make  me 
feel  wretchedly,  you  know  how  much  I  love 
you,  you  know  how  much  reason  I  have  to 
love  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Edith,  I  believe  you  do  love 
me.  But  I  must  not  detain  Sir  Robert,  he  is 
already  at  the  vehicle,  and  so  now  Edith,  fare 
well," 

"  One  hurried  kiss — one  last,  one  long  embrace — 
One  yearning  look  upon  her  tearful  face" — 

and  the  two  friends  had  parted  for  the  last 
time !  They  were  destined  to  meet  no  more 
on  earth. 

Walter,  mounting  the  Shetland  pony  that 
Sir  Robert,  his  grandfather,  had  given  him, 
rode  with  them  on  the  way  for  a  mile  or  more, 
and  then  bidding  them  once  more  good  by, 
he  turned  back  and  at  a  hard  gallop  returned 
to  the  house,  almost  as  sad  at  parting  with 
Clara  as  he  would  have  been  at  any  untoward 
event  that  his  young  mind  could  have  conceived 
of. 

Sir  Robert  had  directed  their  route  so  that 
it  should  carry  them  by  the  way  of  Marlow 
House,  in  order  that  they  might  see  and  bid 
the  family  there  good  by,  for  he  realized 
the  warm  regard  that  existed  between  Clara 
and  Mrs.  Marlow,  and  she  had  herself  ex 
pressed  a  wish  to  see  her  before  she  left  Eng 
land.  With  the  kind  Mrs.  Marlow  Clara 
reviewed  their  old  associations,  and  talked  over 
their  long  companionship,  while  she  enjoyed 
the  hospitality  of  Marlow  House,  and  the 
cheerful,  happy  conversation  of  its  master, 
the  general.  After  a  day's  sojourn  here,  and 
after  bidding  them  a  warm  and  affectionate 
adieu,  the  vehicle  that  bore  them  dashed 
down  the  old  lawn,  and  they  were  once  more 
on  their  journey  towards  another  clime. 

Sir  Robert  was  travelling  in  his  own  car 
riage,  and  his  servant  had  selected  from  the 
stable  for  the  first  few  stages,  a  pair  of 
powerful  bay  horses,  high-spirited,  and  which 
had  been  exercised  but  little  for  some  days 
previous  to  this  time,  in  anticipation  of  the 
somewhat  protracted  service  that  would  be 
required  of  them.  This  being  the  case,  the 
horses  were  full  of  life  and  spirit,  and  on 


leaving  Marlow  House,  showed  some  signs  of 
being  a  little  unmanageable,  but  being  promptly 
checked  by  the  driver,  they  passed  oh  obedi 
ent  to  the  reins.  As  they  came  down  into 
the  village  through  which  the  way  must  carry 
them,  the  sight  of  a  barking  dog  here,  and 
boys  playing  at  ball  in  another  place,  and  the 
crack  of  a  teamster's  whip  close  by  their  very- 
ears,  again  set  them  to  prancing,  and  they 
became  almost  unmanageable  even  in  the  hands 
of  their  experienced  and  careful  driver. 

In  this  mood,  they  dashed  through  the  vil 
lage,  and  had  reached  its  opposite  outskirts, 
when  a  sudden  spring  of  the  animals  and  a 
jolt  of  the  vehicle  in  an  abrupt  unevenness  of 
the  road,  threw  the  driver  violently  from  the 
box,  and  left  Sir  Robert  and  Clara  in  a  most 
fearfqL~jand  critical  situation.  A  hasty  or 
careless  man  would  have  leaped  out,  and  per 
haps  have  lost  his  life  in  consequence,  but 
Sir  Robert  only  pressed  his  arm  about  Clara's 
waist,  to  secure  her  as  much  as  possible  from 
the  jolting,  and  danger  of  being  thrown  out, 
and  also  to  reassure  her  ;  for  although  Clara 
spoke  not  a  word,  yet  the  paleness  of  death 
had  overspread  her'  features.  Sir  Robert  set 
his  teeth  firmly,^i|Ht.  made  no  movement. 
There  was  no  posajpfe  manner  in  which  he 
could  better  their  situation,  and  he  saw  that 
it  only  remained  for  them  to  await  their  fate 
patiently,  let  it  be  what  it  might. 

At  this  moment,  with  the  horses  at  full 
speed,  and  the  vehicle  dashing  after  them 
with  a  terrific  violence  and  noise,  they  passed 
a  neat  little  cottage,  from  whence  Sir  Robert 
saw  a  man  leap  out,  exhibiting  the  nimble- 
ness  of  an  animal,  and  rush  with  the  speed 
of  the  wind  almost  in  the  same  direction  as 
themselves,  every  moment  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  affrighted  horses,  until  his  hands 
rushed  upon  the  harness  and  shoulder  of  the 
near  horse.  Another  moment  and  he  had 
leaped  astride  of  him,  and  was  gathering  up 
the  check  reins  of  both,  and  with  a  strong 
arm  gradually  sawing  upon  the  mouths  of  the 
horses  until  the  subdued  animals,  breathless, 
and  with  smoking  flanks,  at  last  gave  in  to 
his  control,  and  were  drawn  up  safely  at  the 
side  of  the  road. 

There  was  probably  no  other  possible  man 
ner  in  which  they  could  have  been  stopped. 
No  arm  could  have  stayed  their  course  by 
seizing  the  bit,  and  but  very  few  persons  could 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


313 


have  performed  the  feat  that  has  already  been 
described,  of  leaping  upon  the  back  of  the 
near  horse  while  under  such  headway. 

Helping  Clara  to  alight,  Sir  Robert  turned 
towards  him  who  had  thus  been  the  means  of 
saving  their  lives. 

He  was  a  person  of  the  middle  size,  dressed 
in  the  clothing  of  one  engaged  about  a  farm, 
and  now  stood  with  a  hand  on  either  of  the 
horse's  bits,  muttering  some  incoherent  words 
to  himself.  He  did  not  seem  to  notice  Sir 
Robert  or  Clara  at  all,  nor  indeed  to  think  that 
he  had  performed  any  remarkable  service,  but 
appeared  to  be  intent  upon  observing  the 
horses,  and  muttering  some  unintelligible 
words  to  the  animals  that  might  have  been 
one  half  of  a  reproof  and  one  half  of  triumph, 
to  judge  from  the  man's  tone  of  voice  and  his 
manner.  To  all  of  Sir  Robert's  reiterated 
thanks  he  turned  a  deaf  ear ;  indeed  he  did 
not  look  towards  Sir  Robert  at  first  for  some 
minutes  after  he  had  spoken,  but  still  address 
ed  hia' singular  mutterings  to  the  horses  them 
selves. 

"  What  a  singular  being  he  is,"  remarked 
Sir  Robert,  turning  to  Clara,  and  asking  her 
if  she  was  harmed. 

"  I  am  only  a  little  frightened,  Sir  Robert, 
but  have  received  no  bodily  injury,"  she  re 
plied. 

"  Thank  Heaven  for  that.  Thrice  we  were 
on  the  very  verge  of  the  precipice  above  the 
river,  and  I  had  little  expectation,  even  when 
that  brave  fellow  leaped  upon  the  horse,  that 
we  should  bring  up  again  in  safety." 

By  this  time  a  number  of  the  villagers  had 
come  to  the  spot,  and  the  driver,  who  had  been 
partially  hurt  by  his  fall,  also  arrived.  From 
these  people  Sir  Robert  received  every  kind 
ness  and  assistance,  and  many  of  them  re 
cognized  him,  and  remembered  his  service  to 


one  of  their  number,  Edward  Manley,  when 
Sir  Charles  Marlow  was  about  to  wed  Fanny 
Hardway.  Edward  Manley  was  there,  and 
as  he  grasped  Sir  Robert's  hand,  he  thanked 
Heaven  that  no  harm  had  come  to  him. 
When  Sir  Robert  sought  the  person  who  had 
rendered  him  such  important  service  at  such  a 
critical  moment,  in  order  to  remunerate  him 
pecuniarily,  which  he  did  in  a  princely  man 
ner,  he  was  told  that  he  was  Cato,  Fanny's 
half-witted  friend. 

Sir  Robert  had  thus  dropped  among  a  fresh 
army  of  friends,  who  would  scarcely  permit 
him  to  go  away. 

"  Stay,  if  only  for  a  few  hours,"  urged  Ed 
ward  Manley. 

"  Come  and  let  me  arrange  your  dress  and 
person,"  said  the  pretty  matronly  Fanny,  who 
had  hurried  up  to  the  spot  in  a  neighboring 
wagon,  hoping  to  be  of  some  service. 

"  We  will  have  a  holiday,  Sir  Robert,  if 
you  will  stop,"  said  a  leading  man  of  the 
town. 

Indeed  half  the  village  were  urging  them 
to  share  their  hospitality,  but  Sir  Robert  put 
them  off  with  some  well  conceived  excuse, 
declaring  that  his  horses  were  now  too  nearly 
tired  out  to  become  again  unruly,  and  that  his 
arrangements  were  such  that  he  must  reach 
a  certain  point  that  day. 

"  But  on  our  return,"  said  he,  "  we  will 
hope  to  meet  you  all." 

Again  he  sought  the  half-witted  fellow  who 
had  been  the  means  of  saving  their  lives,  and 
taking  his  hand,  and  thanking  him  sincerely, 
he  commended  him  to  the  kindness  of  Ed 
ward  Manley,  whom  he  ordered  to  draw  upon 
him  for  any  means  he  might  desire  in  taking 
care  of  the  half-witted  man. 

With  a  cheer  from  the  friendly  crowd,  they 
drove  on  in  safety. 


CHAPTER    LVIII. 


THE    MISTAKE. 


Weave  we  the  woof.     The  thread  is  spun, 
The  web  is  wove,  the  work  is  done. 


GRAY. 


POETS  have  ever  found  a  fruitful  theme  for 
their  muse  in  the  soft,  genial  climate  and  love 
ly  skies  of  Italy.  Painters  have  immortalized 
nearly  every  spot  upon  the  shores  of  the 
Rhine.  Drawn  thither  by  the  two-fold  pur 
pose  of  improving  the  health  of  Clara,  and 
also  renewing  his  memory  of  the  past,  and  of 
reviewing  once  more  the  scenes  that  were  so 
intimately  connected  with  his  early  career  in 
life,  Sir  Robert  entered  earnestly  into  the  study 
of  the  objects  about  them,  when,  after  an  easy 
journey  of  nearly  two  months,  they  stopped  at 
the  little  inn  of  Mornentz. 

It  was  not  often  that  the  landlord  had  an 
opportunity  to  serve  guests  who  paid  so  liber 
ally  as  Sir  Robert,  and  the  little  inn  became 
the  scene  of  the  utmost  bustle  and  confusion. 
The  bar  maid  was  most  assiduous  to  serve 
Clara,  and  the  host  was  full  of  talk  and  pro 
fuse  offers  to  Sir  Robert. 

"  This  is  the  Postilion,  I  believe  ?"  asked 
Sir  Robert,  as  he  entered. 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  is  the  name  it  has  borne  for 
half  a  century  and  more." 

"  A  goodly  name,  and  I  remember  it  well, 
though  it  is  many  years  since  1  was  here."  As 
Sir  Robert  spoke  he  mused  upon  the  recollec 
tions  of  that  period. 

"I  should  have  remembered  the  visit  of  one 


of  your  class,"  suggested  the  landlord,  inquir 
ingly- 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  was  on  foot  then,  travel 
ling  merely  for  observation.  Eut  things  have 
changed,  for  I  can  remember  the  tower  thai 
crowned  yonder  hill,  but  now  it  is  gone." 

"  Ah !  yes,  that  was  at  the  time  of  the  civil 
war.  One  of  the  factions  tore  it  nearly  to 
pieces." 

Sir  Robert  was  well  aware  of  this  fact,  for 
thus  had  the  castle  of  Ghertstein  suffered,  and 
many  fine  specimens  of  the  old  feudal  times 
that  had  greeted  his  former  visit,  now  lay  in 
ruins,  adding  a  heightened  but  sad  interest  to 
the  scene.  To  Clara,  all  was  so  new,  and  so 
fraught  with  romantic  interest,  that  for  a  while 
she  had  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  ill  health 
and  physical  feebleness  as  they  advanced,  in 
the  constant  activity  that  she  found  for  her 
mind  in  the  scenes  and  associations  about  her. 
Sir  Robert,  in  his  large  experience,  explained 
everything,  and  told  Clara  too  of  his  adven 
tures  here. 

And  now  for  the  first  time  in  the  course  of 
his  explanations,  Clara  learned  that  the  man 
who  had  so  long  kept  her  and  Edith  in  Lon 
don,  was  this  same  Robber  of  the  Rhine,  and 
when  Sir  Robert  explained  Karl  Blasius's  al 
most  frantic  passion  for  the  Lady  Gustine, 


THE  MISTAKE 

showing  the  cause  of  his  singular  passion  for 
Edith  by  reason  of  her  resemblance  to  her 
mother,  then  all  was  clear  to  Clara's  mind  as 
to  the  strange  passion  of  Lancewood  for  her 
self  as  well  as  Edith,  since  by  some  freak  of 
nature  they  both  possessed  eyes  so  much 
alike,  besides  other  resemblances. 

As  they  went  on  towards  Bronts,  a  ruin 
was  ex|  lored  here,  and  a  lofty  tower  there, 
reviving  in  Sir  Robert's  mind  potent  memories 
of  years  long  since  gone  by.  And  finally  they 
found  themselves  settled  for  a  period  in  pleas 
ant  quarters  in  the  city  itself,  and  from  whence 
they  could  visit  the  neighboring  places  of  in 
terest,  and  more  particularly  the  ruins  of  the 
castle  of  Ghertstein. 

It  was  a  soft  summer's  afternoon  when  Cla 
ra  and  Sir  Robert,  after  having  mounted  the 
heights  of  Ghertstein  in  the  vehicle,  alighted 
to  wander  over  the  moss  covered  stones,  and 
beneath  the  ivy  grown  walls  of  the  old  feudal 
structure.  A  feeling  almost  akin  to  awe 
seemed  to  come  over  Sir  Robert,  and  he  half- 
whispered  as  he  spoke  to  her  who  leaned  upon 
his  arm.  Clara  herself  realized  a  feeling  of 
strange  interest  as  they  paused  now  and  then 
to  recognize  the  divisions  of  the  castle. 

They  had  strolled  thus  among  the  ruins  but 
a  few  moments,  when  they  heard  footsteps 
coming  from  a  deep  arch  of  the  walls,  and 
pausing,  observed  the  form  of  one  bent  by 
care,  age  and  sorrow,  leaning  upon  a  staff, 
while  his  gray  beard  and  matted  hair  swept 
his  breast. 

"  This  must  be  the  monk  of  whom  they  told 
us  below,"  said  Sir  Robert,  to  Clara,  who 
seemed  inclined  to  turn  and  leave  the  spot. — 
"  Surely,  we  have  no  cause  for  fear,  Clara." 

"  No,  Sir  Robert,  but  I  had  rather  ^o  away. 
I  had  rather  not  meet  him.  What  eyes  he 
has !  They  make  me  shudder,"  she  said, 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word. 

"  Why,  Clara,  you  are  growing  "nervous 
lately,"  said  her  protector,  pleasantly,  endeav 
oring  to  reassure  her. 

Clara  said  no  more,  for  already  had  the 
aged  hermit,  as  such  his  appearance  bespoke 
him,  approached  them  too  nearly  for  either 
party  to  pass  by  in  that  place  without  speak 
ing. 

Sir  Robert  approached  and  addressed  the 
venerable  appearing  man,  who  started,  and 
drawing  nearer  to  him,  looked  deeply,  as  it 


OF  A  LIFE-TIME.  315 

were,  into  his  face,  and  then  turning  to  Clara, 
he  bent  a  no  less  penetrating  glance  upon  her. 
He  appeared  to  be  overcome  with  a  strange 
emotion,  and  scarcely  able  to  support  his  tot 
tering  frame,  and  yet  he  totally  rejected  the 
proffered  arm  of  Sir  Robert,  and  all  the 
while  seeming  to  be  struggling  for  utterance. 

"  Sir  Robert  Brompton,"  he  said,  at  last, 
"  you  have  come  to  revive  my  early  memory, 
and  to  review  the  scenes  of  years  gone  by." 

"  You  know  me  then  ?" 

"  Ay,  and  know  you  not  me  ?" 

"  I  do  not." 

"  It  is  strange." 

"  Your  voice  and  eye  haunt  my  memory, 
but  I  cannot  recall  any  thing  to  fix  the  name." 

"  Do  you  not  remember  the  fortune-teller, 
the  burglar,  the  pirate  whom  you  met  in  the 
Spanish  Indies?  Remember  you  not  Karl 
Blasius,  the  Robber  of  the  Rhine  ?" 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  are  Karl  Blasius  ?" 
asked  Sir  Robert,  in  utter  amazement,  while 
Clara  shrunk  back  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands,  as  she  recalled  the  person  of  him  who 
stood  before  her ! 

"  I  stated  to  you  in  my  letter,  written  at 
the  time  I  left  London,  that  this  was  my  des 
tination,  and  that  here  1  should  watch  and 
pray." 

"Your  letter?" 

"Ay,  the  one  in  which  I  explained  the  se 
cret  I  had  so  long  withheld,"  he  replied. 

"I  received  but  one  letter  from  you,  and 
that  was  relating  to  the  money  I  held  for  you 
in  trust.  That  letter  1  answered,  though  I  al 
ways  wondered  that  I  heard  no  more  from 
you." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  the  letter  miscarried  af 
ter  all  my  precaution?"  said  the  ex-robber, 
thoughtfully,  and  then  suddenly,  as  if  remem 
bering  himself,  he  continued  : 

"  Then  you  know  not  even  to  this  day  that 
which  I  would  have  revealed  ?" 

"  You  have  never  given  me  the  promised 
information,"  replied  Sir  Robert,  calmly. 

"  Your  mistake  has  remained  undiscovered 
then  to  the  last?"  continued  the  ex-robber. 

"  In  relation  to  what  ?" 

«  Your  child  !" 

"  Edith  is  well  and  happy  in  the  bosom  of 
of  her  family." 

'•  And  you  have  ever  until  now  believed 
that  Edith  was  your  daughter  ?" 


316 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


• 

"  Gracious  God !  what  do  you  mean  r*  ex 
claimed  Sir  Robert,  in  the  utmost  amazement. 

"I  mean  *  that  your  child,  flesh  of  your 
flesh,  and  blood  of  your  blood,  now  stands  by 
your  side.  Clara  is  your  daughter!" 

"  Know  you  this,  and  can  you  prove  it  ?" 
said  Sir  Robert,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Upon  my  hope  of  salvation,  what  I  have 
spoken  is  true." 

"O,  God,  what  a  strange,  life-long  mistake 
is  this.  Clara,  are  you  indeed  my  child  ? — 
Speak  to  me.  But  stay — the  proof,  the  proof, 
I  want,  and  must  have  that." 

The  excitement  of  the  moment,  the  charac 
ter  of  this  startling  revelation,  the  singular 
emotions  induced  from  the  first  moment  that 
Clara  had  realized  who  the  singular  being  be 
fore  them  really  was,  all  proved  too  much  for 
her  tender  physical  powers,  and  she  fell  faint 
ing  into  Sir  Robert's  arms.  He  thought  her 
for  a  moment  to  be  really  dead,  that  she  had 
breathed  her  last,  but  following  the  direction  of 
him  who  had  just  made  so  startling  a  revela 
tion,  Sir  Robert  bore  her  beneath  the  arch 
from  whence  they  had  first  seen  the  repentant 
man  emerge,  and  there  he  laid  her  down  upon 
a  rough  couch  in  an  old  cell  of  the  castle 
which  Karl  Blasius  had  long  occupied.  Here 
both  adopted  every  means  at  hand  to  recover 
to  life  again  the  delicate  form  before  them. — 
It  was  a  fearful  struggle  of  nature  before  she 
once  more  found  power  to  breathe,  and  even 
after  that,  many  serious  moments  were  passed 
by  Sir  Robert  in  watching  for  a  return  of  full 
consciousness. 

At  last,  however,  it  came,  and  raising  her 
self  upon  one  arm,  Clara  looked  about  her  as 
if  to  fathom  the  mystery  of  her  situation,  then 
suddenly  she  paused  with  her  eyes  resting 
upon  the  opposite  wall,  where  the  dainty  light 
that  came  from  the  lofty  window  of  the  wall, 
played  upon  a  picture  of  surpassing  beauty. — 
She  did  not  speak,  but  pointed  Sir  Robert  to 
the  spot  where  her  eyes  rested. 

"  It  is  the  long-lost  picture !"  he  exclaimed, 
gazing  with  the  deepest  interest. 

"  Ay,  it  is  her  picture,"  said  Karl  Blasius 
"  my  only,  my  constant  companion.  Look 
upon  that  face,"  he  continued,  "  and  then  upon 
the  picture,  and  you  will  hardly  need  the  fur 
ther  evidence  of  the  truth  of  what  1  have  tolc 
you,  but  which  I  shall  presently  give  you." 


Sir  Robert  did  gaze  first  at  Clara,  and  then 
at  the  almost  perfect  picture  of  her  who  had 
>een  his  dearly  loved  wife,  and  conviction  was 
written  upon  every  line  of  his  face.  He  sat 
down  upon  the  side  of  the  couch,  and  taking 
one  of  Clara's  hands  within  his  own,  he  cov- 
red  his  face  with  the  other,  and  breathed  like 
one  whose  emotions  defied  the  power  of 
ordinary  utterance. 

In  that  exciting  moment  the  facts  flashed 
across  his  mind  like  a  meteor,  and  he  reviewed 
minutely  the  position  that  Clara  had  held  in 
his  household  and  his  heart,  from  the  mo 
ment  when  he  discovered  her  standing  amazed 
and  wondering  at  the  rich  drawing-room  into  ' 
which  Edith  had  conducted  her,  until  the 
present  hour.  He  recalled  he'r  as  the  poor 
outcast  who  had  befriended  and  cherished  his 
adopted  child  ;  he  saw  her,  young  and  beauti 
ful,  struggling  with  her  delicacy  of  feeling, 
while  she  shared  his  protection  arid  bounty — a 
protection  that  was  hers  by  right.  He  review 
ed  all  these  things  in  the  light  which  he  would 
be  supposed  to  do  now  that  he  knew 
all,  for  he  believed  the  robber's  words,  and  the 
evidence  of  that  strangely  faithful  picture  of 
his  wife. 

He  pressed  the  feeble  hand  that  rested  with 
in  his  own,  and  Clara  raised  his  silently  to  her 
lips  !  No  words  could  truthfully  describe  that 
moment,  no  language  honestly  depict  the 
workings  of  those  two  hearts.  Sir  Robert 
felt  as  though  he  hardly  dared  to  speak  and 
break  the  spell  that  rested  upon  them,  and 
Clara  only  pressed  his  hand  silently  to  her 
lips.  She  remembered  that  he  had  been  in 
deed  a  father  to  her  from  the  first,  and  could 
have  been  no  kinder  even  with  this  present 
knowledge,  save  in  the  sympathy  of  blood. 
He  had,  as  we  have  before  shown,  explained 
to  Clara,  when  he  thought  Edith  to  be  his 
child,  and  during  the  fearful  aberration  of 
mind  that  followed  the  disclosure  to  her,  the 
emotions  that  had  led  him  to  adopt  the  plan 
which  was  suggested  to  him  by  Mr.  Howard, 
his  agent,  so  many  years  now  past,  and  thus 
Clara  saw  her  father  in  no  unnatural  light  at 
the  present  moment,  for  the  secret  of  his  life 
was  known  to  her. 

"  Ah,  Clara,  Clara,  how  shall  I  speak  to 
you — what  can  I  say  ?"  whispered  Sir  Robert, 
leaning  over  her. 

"  Only  that  you  love  me  as  well  as  before 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


this  change  came  over  us,"  she  answered,  in  a 
gentle  voice. 

"  You  need  no  assurance  of  that,  my  dear 
child ;  but  I  must  seek  for  an  explanation  at 
once  from  this  man,  as  soon  as  you  are  well 
enough  to  return  to  the  town." 

"  Can  it  be  ?"  asked  Clara,  after  gazing  for 
a  few  moments  in  silence  upon  the  picture, 
"  can  it  be  that  that  beautiful  being  was  my 
mother — so  fair,  so  noble,  so  angelic  ?" 

Sir  Robert's  heart  was  too  full  for  speech ; 
he  gazed  in  silence,  only  turning  now  and 
then  from  the  picture  to  Clara,  that  he  might 
mark  the  wonderful  resemblance  which  existed 
between  them,  and  then  regarding  once  more 
almost  with  awe  the  life-like  representation 
that  the  artist  had  left  of  the  original. 

Clara  could  not  suppress  an  involuntary 
shudder,  when  Karl  Blasius  offered  her  some 
wine  ;  there  was  so  much  of  alarm  and  dread 
associated  with  the  memory  she  had  in  her 
own  experience  of  him,  and  so  much  more  in 
the  extended  knowledge  of  his  life  gained 
from  Sir  Robert,  that  she  could  not  bear  to 
look  into  his  face.  Karl  saw  this,  and  only 
sighed — he  read  her  feelings  exactly.  But 
Sir  Robert  pressed  the  wine  upon  her,  and 
she  drank  of  it,  that  she  might  be  able  to  fol 
low  him  to  their  residence  in  town. 

Having  partially  recovered,  he  led  her  to 
their  vehicle,  and  driving  back  to  Bronts,  he 
left  her,  promising  to  return  again  as  soon  as 
he  should  have  revisited  the  ruin,  and  ob 
tained  the  explanation  that  was  of  so  much 
interest  to  both  him  and  Clara. 

With  this  purpose,  Sir  Robert  once  more 
sought  Karl  Blasius.  The  robber  was  expect 
ing  him,  and  as  he  entered  his  humble  abode, 
he  first  addressed  him,  saying  he  knew  the 
queries  he  would  make,  and  then  drawing  a 
rough  seat  near  to  where  Sir  Robert  had  plac 
ed  himself,  he  explained  the  mystery. 

It  required  but  few  words  between  them  to 
show  Sir  Robert  that  nearly  all  had  turned 
upon  the  fact  of  the  strong  resemblance  each 
bore  the  other,  and  the  singular  likeness  that 
both  presented  to  his  departed  wife.  Karl 
Blasius,  who  had  long  since  fathomed  and 
ferreted  out  the  whole  affair — from  motives  that 
the  reader  can  easily  comprehend — then  show 
ed  Sir  Robert  that  he  had  at  the  outset  been 
on  the  right  track,  and  that  he  had  actually 
discovered  the  woman  to  whom  his  agent  had 


317 


consigned  the  cnre  of  his  child  ;  but  when  he 
attempted  to  follow  out  the  thread  of  direction 
that  this  woman  gave  him,  instead  of  its 
bringing  him  in  contact  with  Clara,  the  true 
child,  he  met  and  thought  he  recognized  Edith, 
and  from  that  hour  and  moment,  his  grand 
mistake  was  commenced. 

The  woman  had  been  visited  in  disguise  by 
Sir  Robert,  and  had  not  the  least  knowledge 
of  who  he  or  the  child  might  be,  but  consid 
ered  that  his  endeavor  to  recover  her  might  be 
the  result  of  his  aroused  conscience,  and 
therefore  received  his  liberal  remuneration 
and  told  him  all  she  knew.  Indeed  she 
told  him,  truly  too,  that  the  house  in  which 
she  lived,  humble  as  it  was,  had  been  robbed, 
on  the  supposition  that  she  had  gold  secreted 
there,  and  she  was  herself  wounded,  and  left 
for  dead,  while  the  child  was  taken  care  of  by 
some  chance  hand,  until  she  happened  to  dis 
cover  it  again — but  she  was  too  poor  to  take  it 
home,  and  support  it,  without  any  prospect  of 
remuneration. 

Of  course  Sir  Robert  had  never  called  again 
on  this  woman,  because  he  had  no  desire  to 
expose  himself  in  relation  to  the  matter,  and 
having  fully  repaid  her  services,  and  at  a  price 
that  astonished  her,  as  coming  from  one  appa 
rently  so  humble,  he  never  again  sought  her 
presence. 

"  When  I  by  chance  met  with  Clara,"  con 
tinued  the  robber,  "  her  singular  resemblance 
to  the  Lady  Gustine  challenged  my  interest, 
and  I  inquired  out  her  history,  but  it  was 
unsatisfactory.  I  could  hear  little  or  nothing. 
Chance,  as  you  will  remember,  led  me  to  find 
where  Edith  was,  and  I  bore  her  away  from 
your  house,  and  placing  the  two  together,  I 
was  confounded.  I  knew  that  one  or  both 
must  be  the  child  of  Lady  Gustine.  I  was 
sure  of  that;  for  though  I  learned  that 
the  one  you  had  ever  supposed  to  be  hers 
had  been  shipped  to  India,  yet  I  felt  sure 
some  secret  lay  at  the  bottom  of  it  all, 
and  I  determined  to  fathom  it;  but  it  was  not 
until  after  they  had  both  escaped  from  me 
that  I  succeeded  in  establishing  beyond  a 
doubt  which  was  Lady  Gustine's  child.  When 
you  visited  me  as  the  fortune-teller,  I  had 
found  this  out,  and  also  had  possession  of  a 
small  memorandum  in  the  hand-writing  of 
your  agent,  a  small  book  in  which  he  had 


318 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


kept  his  account  with  the  woman  in  cnarge  of 
the  child,  and  in  which  also  was  his  name 
and  reference  to  a  package  of  papers  relating 
to  the  same  business.  This  book  he  had  one 
day  dropped  at  her  house  ;  indeed  I  believe  it 
was  the  very  last  time  he  was  there.  The 
woman  could  not  read,  and  when  I  offered  her 
pay  for  any  information  she  could  give  me, 
she  said  she  had  this  book,  which  I  might 
have  if  I  liked,  and  thus  1  became  possessed  of 
it,  and  of  your  secret. 

"  This  book  also  contained  in  pencil  the 
copy  of  two  letters,  which  he  had  evidently 
sent  to  you  while  you  were  in  India,  relating 
to  your  purpose  and  plan  as  it  regarded  your 
child.  Of  course,  possessing  these  papers,  I 
felt  that  I  could,  should  the  time  arrive  when 
I  should  require  your  aid,  command  it.  And 
it  was  also  that  little  book  which  enabled  me 
to  speak  as  I  did  to  you  when  you  came  to 
consult  me  as  Madame  Duval.  I  promised, 
for  the  service  you  rendered  me  in  relation  to 
the  Hardhead  trial,  to  give  you  valuable  in 
formation  that  nearly  concerned  you  and 
yours.  This  was  the  explanation  I  had  in 
tended  to  make  to  you,  and  which  I  did  put 
in  writing,  and  presumed 'that  you  would  get, 
but  my  very  caution  defeated  itself." 

"  What  a  strange  story  is  all  this,"  said  Sir 
Robert,  musing. 

"Are   you   satisfied  with   the  explanation 
which  I  give  ?"  asked  the  repentant  robber. 
"  Yes." 

"  And  yet  perhaps  in  so  delicate  a  matter 
it  were  better  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure. 
The  book  I  retained  with  my'  other  papers  and 
valuables  that  I  brought  here  with  me,  partly 
from  an  idea  that  it  might  perhaps  some 
day  serve  some  purpose  that  I  could  not  then 
foresee,  and  partly  because  I  did  not  wish  after 
all  to  send  it  to  you  at  the  risk  of  its  being 
lost,  and  perhaps  making  the  whole  affair  pub 
lic,  and  injure  your  position.  Since  I  have 
had  it  here  I  chanced  one  day  to  examine  it 
more  minutely  than  I  had  done  before,  and 
found  this  item,  which  I  will  show  you." 

Saying  which,  he  produced  a  well-worn  and 
somewhat  decayed  memorandum  book,  from 
which  he  read  to  Sir  Robert  as  follows  : 

"  Perhaps  it  is  needless,  but  I  have  thought 
best  in  case  of  accident  to  myself,  or  of  the 
occurrence  of  any  unforeseen  casualty,  to  have 
the  identity  of  the  child  placed  beyond  the 


possibility  of  mistake.  I  have,  therefore,  ex 
amined  the  child  and  find  on  the  back  of  its 
head,  beneath  the  line  of  the  ears,  a  bare  place 
of  the  size  of  a  sovereign,  produced  by  some 
severe  wound." 

"  It  was  incurred  when  she  was  a  little 
more  than  a  year  old,  I  remember  well,  by 
a  fall." 

"  Of  course,  1  have  no  means  of  knowing 
whether  the  scar  is  still  there  or  not,  but  you 
can  easily  satisfy  yourself  by  examining  when 
you  return  to  Bronts,"  said  Karl  Blasius. 

"  You  will  give  me  the  book,  will  you  not  ?" 
asked  Sir  Robert. 

"  Certainly." 

"  Then  I  have  all  necessary  evidence  to  sat 
isfy  myself  in  the  matter,"  he  replied. 

After  a  few  more  words  relating  to  the 
strange  fortune  which  had  led  them  so  often 
to  cross  each  other's  path  in  life,  since  their 
first  meeting  at  the  little  inn  of  Mornentz,  Sir 
Robert  bade  the  so  called  monk  of  Ghertstein 
farewell,  and  sought  once  more  the  presence 
of  his  child.  t 

He  found  that  the  exciting  scene  through 
which  she  had  just  passed,  was  far  too  much 
for  her  delicate  state  of  health,  and  the  change 
that  had  come  over  her  features,  frightened 
him.  She  noted  well  the  expression  of  his 
face — her  own  was  calm  and  collected.  She 
had  been  at  prayer  before  Sir  Robert  came  in, 
and  had  now  risen  and  lay  upon  her  couch, 
with  a  quick  heaving  of  the  breast  from  the 
exertion,  but  with  an  expression  that  bespoke 
all  within  to  be  peaceable  and  happy. 

Sir  Robert  told  her  all  that  had  pissed  at 
the  ruin.  On  examination,  he  found  the  scar 
upon  the  back  of  her  head.  There  could  be 
no  further  doubt ;  he  was  perfectly  satisfied. 

"  But,  Clara,  you  look  more  feeble  than  I 
have  seen  you  for  many  days,"  he  said. 

"  I   have  long  felt  that  I  was  slowly  ap 
proaching  my  end.     Perhaps  now  that  I  have 
been  made  so  happy,  I  have  scarcely  a  wish 
remaining  ungratitied." 
"  Dear,  dear  Clara." 

"  And  yet  there  is  one  thing  T  would  pray 
you  to  satisfy  me  in." 

"Anything,  Clara,  anything  in  this  world, 
that  I  ran  do,  even  to  the  sacrifice  of  my  life." 
"  Edith  thinks  that  she  is  your  child — she  is 
satisfied  of  that." 

"  Yes,  we  have  all  been  deceived." 


THE  MISTAKE  OF  A  LIFE-TIME. 


319 


"  Then  promise  me  never  to  undeceive  her. 
It  would  make  her  wretched.  I  shall  die  more 
in  peace  to  know  that  she  will  live  in  the  hap 
py  delusion." 

"  But—" 

"  Nay,  if  you  love  me,  father !" 

"AhJ  Clara  that  word!"  and  Sir  Robert 
bent  over  and  kissed  the  pallid  cheek  before 
him!_ 

"  You  promise  me  that  she  shall  not  be  un 
deceived  ?" 

"  I  promise  !"  said  Sir  Robert. 

"  One  more  request,"  she  continued. 

"  What  is  it,  Clara  ?"  Sir  Robert  pressed 
her  hand  and  leaned  over  her  to  hear  it. 

"  Bury  me  by  my  mother's  side — will  you 
not?" 

"  1  will,  I  will,"  sobbed  Sir  Robert,  weeping 
like  a  child. 

He  watched  with  her  all  that  night.  At 
times  she  conversed  almost  like  one  inspired 
with  divine  grace.  She  said  she  was  more 
happy  than  ever  before  in  her  life,  and  so  she1" 
evidently  was.  Her  only  wish  now  was  to 
join  her  dear  mother  in  heaven.  As  the  morn 
ing  light  struggled  across  the  mountain  top, 
and  lighted  up  the  broad  valley  of  the  Rhine, 
she  kissed  her  father's  cheek,  and  murmured 
in  a  low,  sweet  voice  : 


"  I  go,  dear  father,  to  meet  her,  my  mother, 
among  the  blest." 

"  Hark  !  they  whisper,  angels  say, 
Sister  spirit,  come  away  !  " 


Edith  never  knew  of  these  strange  revela 
tions,  but  lived  happy  in  her  unconscious  mis 
take.  The  robber  soon  slept  his  final  sleep 
among  the  ruins,  while  our  other  characters 
wended  their  way  peaceably  and  happy,  one 
by  one,  and  in  due  season  to  their  final 
home. 

Sir  Robert  lived  on,  a  more  thoughtful  man. 
He  withdrew  almost  entirely  from  the  world, 
only  striving  to  do  as  much  good  with  his 
princely  means  as  was  possible.  He  cherish 
ed  his  adopted  child,  Edith,  and  in  his  heart, 
the  memory  of  the  two  who  were  gone  before 
him  to  the  spirit  land.  He  brought  Clara's 
remains  and  laid  them,  as  he  had  promised, 
beside  her  mother's  ashes,  and  here,  when 
unobserved  by  the  busy  eyes  of  the  world,  he 
often  resorted  to  weep  and  pray.  In  his  will, 
he  endowed  Edith's  children  largely,  and  he 
was  buried  as  he  desired,  by  Clara's  side. 

And  thus  was  consummated  THE  MISTAKE 

OF   A    LlFE-TlME. 


THE  END. 


i 


-        "H!Pt      .     !      '   *:»    >'.   . 

SSBMBflHiK 

ifc       '•          •;  •     i  i 

;  •  '"            J  ,    - 

I™BH 

*;/i'  ^ 

>*i**- 

'  «    ..rf-di,- 

ffli^M§|BJiy@ 

'.>   "  ,      •     ;l     "••  ^BF         >j 

:,:  *JV?J 

•'a»           *"                     v, 

".•,18,..^^* 

